


The Host with the Most

by K_dAzrael



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dry Humping, Host Clubs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: “You’re saying you’d pay someone to just get drunk off their ass and chit-chat with lonely androids. And you really think they're gonna want to talk to some old grizzled loser, not some hot, perky young thing in a maid costume?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: February 2039**

Hank Anderson can’t say he’s enjoying early retirement, but he does have a routine: Jimmy’s Bar opens at five, which usually gives him just long enough to sleep off his hangover, take care of his dog, and eat a little cold takeout while slumped on his couch watching the tail-end of the daytime talk shows. This rhythm he’s got going lasts until one grey, damp Tuesday when he wakes earlier than usual and the shakes set in by 3PM. He decides to head out in search of someplace to tide him over – a pitstop before he can slip onto his usual stool and have the barman nod in silent recognition.

The neighbourhood around Jimmy’s is being gentrified at an astounding speed. Some savvy real estate developers stepped in after the revolution to take advantage of the emerging android leisure market and so down came the dive bars and barbecue shacks and up went shiny shopping arcades for a new generation of eager consumers. This retail renaissance is a frequent topic on the daytime TV shows that Hank lets wash over him while he’s slumped on his couch. The grinning hosts sweat off their make-up under studio lights as self-appointed trend ‘experts’ discuss how androids have expressed a strange preference for brick and mortar stores; how they actually seem to enjoy tactile and social shopping experiences over the simpler one-click model that humans have favoured since the advent of drone-delivery. There was a patronising tone to these segments – _how nice for them_, the host’s sympathetic nodding seemed to imply, _fucking weirdos_.

Still half blinded by hangover and the cold wind stinging his eyes, Hank finds himself getting a lost in this new landscape of glass and steel that has touched down in the old neighbourhood like an alien spaceship. He makes his way along the pavement at a slow shuffle as waves of brisk android shoppers pass by, each one heading for an objective and a known destination. Hank scans the shop fronts, searching for anything that seems familiar or might be a bar. At this point he’ll even take a damn coffee shop – anything to quench his parched throat and clear the fog in his brain.

Hank’s shoulder collides with something harder than a human body but marginally softer than a concrete post and a hand grasps his shoulder to steady him. He rocks back on one foot and finds himself standing before two androids holding a sign. “Whoa, careful there!” says a chipper voice.

Hank steadies himself and squints to focus on the two androids – they’re identical: male-presenting with strawberry blond hair, freckles, and wide Disney-Park smiles. Their facial features are rather homely and plain, which is unusual – CyberLife androids tend to be supermodel gorgeous by default. He glances down at the sandwich-board sign propped up between them. The centred text reads: “NOW OPEN - JERRY’S BAR!” Bracketing this main message are two diagonal scrolls reading: “REAL HUMAN HOSTS!” and “COMPANIONSHIP AND CONVERSATION!”

Hank frowns, leaning in closer to make sure he’s really reading the sign clearly.

“Hi!” says the android on the left. “Are you interested in becoming a host?”

“Just what the fuck is a that?” Hank growls. He is too hungover for this shit.

“A host is someone who entertains our android clientele,” replies the one on the right, gesturing to the board with a sweep of his hand. His voice and intonation are identical to that of his counterpart – listening to the two androids talk is like having a crummy old TV with mono sound.

“‘Companionship and conversation,’ huh?” Hank repeats, scratching his beard. “Just what kind of bar is this?”

Righty raises a finger in emphasis: “a really fun one.”

“Sounds kind of sleazy.”

“Oh no,” Lefty insists. “It’s a legitimate business model. Many androids find it difficult to relate to humans in our new social structure. This arrangement can help ease them into basic social interactions.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank is still sceptical. “And what do the humans get out of it?”

“Minimum wage, plus tips, plus whatever refreshments the guest orders for the table,” Righty replies.

“‘Refreshments’ as in drinks?” (both androids nod) “You’re saying you’d pay someone like me to just get drunk off their ass and chit-chat with lonely androids.”

“As long as your conversation remains pleasant and professional, yes.”

Hank narrows his eyes. “Define ‘pleasant’.”

“Interesting, engaging to the listener.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re sure this isn’t a sex thing, right?”

“Oh no!” Lefty looks scandalised. “Well… we can’t control the motivations of our clients, but the terms of service are drinks and conversation, that’s it.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank is still sceptical. “And you really think androids are gonna want to talk to some old grizzled loser, not some hot, perky young thing in a maid costume?”

Righty smiles encouragingly. “Oh we find our android customers are looking for colourful humans with a wide variety of life experiences.”

“‘Colourful’, huh?” Hank lets out a grim chuckle.

“Would you like a trial shift?” Lefty asks.

“Huh?”

“One drink with a client – twenty minutes.”

“One drink?” Hank repeats, intrigued despite his misgivings. Righty holds out a business card. “Take this to Jerry on the door. Say that we sent you.”

Hank squints at the card, turning it over in his fingers. “And you are?”

“Oh, we are also Jerry,” says Lefty.

“We’re _all_ Jerry,” Righty confirms.

“Great,” says Hank, “bet that won’t get confusing when I’ve had a few. So you want me to go… now?”

“Why not?” Left-Jerry smiles. “No time like the present, that’s what we always say.”

Right-Jerry turns and points. “Half a block down on the left. You can’t miss the sign. Be careful on the stairs and always hold the handrail.”

Hank follows the directions to a basement bar. It is cool and dark inside, soothing on his headache. Jerry-on-the-door takes his card with a smile and leads Hank to an empty horseshoe-shaped booth. Before long yet another red-head appears – emphatically not a Jerry, but a beautiful female-presenting android with a scowl on her face that would put an emo teenager to shame. She is dressed in baggy, bohemian clothing and a beanie hat, and she throws herself down on the other side of the booth with a sigh, pushing a hand back through the strands of hair that have escaped the loose braid hanging over her shoulder.

Hank sits up straighter and clears his throat awkwardly. “You, uh, you here for ‘companionship and conversation’?”

“Ew,” she replies flatly, crossing her arms and purposefully not looking at him. “I’m here because my boyfriend’s boyfriend made me come.”

“Your boyfriend’s… boyfriend?”

“He’s a guy,” the android explains as if Hank is very stupid, “who dates the guy I am dating. He’s called Simon.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“No, idiot! _Markus_ is my boyfriend.”

“The guy from TV?” Hank blurts this out before he has time to consider it might be offensive to assume there’s only one android called Markus.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I guess I can see why he’s a popular guy.”

“I like Markus – he _gets me_, y’know?” the android continues – she is still staring straight ahead so it seems as if she is telling her story to the large tropical fish tank along the back wall. “And I guess Simon is ok too, he’s just a real goody two-shoes and it bugs me sometimes. He’s all ‘North, you can’t keep pulling guns on cops’, ‘North, stop calling the humans pervs and meatbags.’”

“Sounds like a buzzkill,” Hank says with a sympathetic nod. “I mean you’re not wrong about the pervs and meatbags part.”

“I know, right?” she raises her arms in a shrugging, expansive gesture. “Anyway, I’m supposed to buy you a drink, apparently.” A Jerry in a waiter’s apron suddenly appears by their table as if he has been waiting in the wings for his cue. “What do you want?”

“Black Lamb, neat” is on the tip of Hank’s tongue, but he considers the earliness of the hour, and besides he might need his wits about him when dealing with emotionally volatile androids. “I’ll take a beer, if you’re buying.”

“Whatever,” says North, turning her head to make eye contact with him for the first time. “I guess I could use some Thirium. Might as well pass the time, since I’m here.”

“Might as well,” Hank agrees.

*~*~*

**April 2039**

Hank squints against the late afternoon sun as he walks along, hands in his pockets and coat unbuttoned to the mild spring air. The familiar pink neon sign reading ‘Jerry’s Bar’ comes into view, an arrow pointing down to the basement-level entrance. Hank almost misses his footing on the first step, reaching out to grasp the metal railing and sighing with relief as he makes it into the cool, dim interior. Muzak is playing, like always, and the long, curved bar is lit up a muted blue. There is something vaguely nautical about the décor of the place, like the interior was modelled on a sunken galleon: dark wood fittings and small, round windows high up that give glimpses of the shoes of people passing by at street level. One wall is taken up with a huge aquarium and Hank can lose hours just watching the fish making their slow circles, exotic fins billowing out like taffeta ballgowns.

Before Hank’s eyes can even grow accustomed to the gloom, a voice chirps up at his ear: “Hi Hank, you’re twenty-two minutes late. That’s not a criticism, but it will be reflected in your paycheck.”

Hank turns towards the orange blur on his left, which resolves itself into Jerry wearing the white shirt and black waistcoat ensemble of front of house. There’s always something a little unnerving about his lively green eyes and wide, unfailing smile.

Hank waves a hand. “Yeah yeah. Any regulars in?”

“Connor is here. He’s been waiting for you since we opened.”

“Oh Christ,” Hank mutters as a figure at the other end of the room stands up from a booth and gives him a dorky little wave. “That kid will be the death of me.”

“Connor is one of your best customers,” Jerry says, consulting the tablet in the crook of his arm. “So we thought you would want to take the booking. We have spoken to him about his behaviour.”

“Wait, what?” Hank frowns, because Jerry just said at least two things he doesn’t understand. “There’s a booking system?”

“Of course. Regulars naturally want to reserve their favourite hosts.”

“And that like, costs money? People pay money to specifically spend time with people like me?”

“Well sure – that is the entire concept!” Jerry twinkles, rising up onto the balls of his feet. Hank wonders, not for the first time, who made Jerry and why. Was CyberLife’s brief for this model ‘Potsie from _Happy Days_ but make him creepy’? 

“Okay then I guess I’ll… get to it.” Hank turns and makes his way past the bar where Jerry, dressed in the white shirt and black bowtie of a bartender, stands agitating a silver cocktail shaker.

“Hello Lieutenant,” Connor says, jumping up from his seat again. “I haven’t ordered you a drink yet, but based on your appearance this afternoon I would recommend a fruit juice.”

Hank slides into the semi-circular booth with a groan. “Hey, you know where you can stick your fruit juice?”

Connor cocks his head like a confused puppy. “No, where?”

Hank snorts and rubs a hand over his face. “Get me a black coffee, if you’re buying.”

“Got it,” Connor sits down and raises his hand to get Jerry’s attention. Jerry comes over in the black shirt and white half-apron of a server.

“What can we get you folks?” he asks.

“A large coffee, please. And a 240ml serving of Thirium.”

“Sure thing, we’ll get right on that,” Jerry chirps. “Sugar for the coffee?”

“Nah,” says Hank. “I’m sweet enough.”

Jerry walks away, passing the order to his counterpart at the POS station. “That was a joke,” Connor says after a beat. “Because sweet could refer to your disposition.”

Hank clicks his tongue and makes a finger gun at Connor. “There’s that million-dollar brain at work.”

Connor looks pleased and then unsure. He is sitting at the very edge of the banquette seat, one foot on the carpet outside the booth.

“You seem kind of on edge today, kid. Something the matter?”

“No. That is… not really.”

Hank pats the upholstery next to him. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Connor scootches over a few inches. He looks up at Hank and then down at his own hands where they rest on the tabletop. “I suppose things have been difficult at work. I have a heavy caseload – nothing I can’t handle, but… I don’t find the cases very stimulating.”

“They still got you on fraud?”

Connor nods. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but processing financial records is not the best use of my specialist features and abilities. I was created to analyse crime scenes and interview suspects. They seem to think I’m just a glorified adding machine.”

“That sucks. I wish I could help you, but you know – I didn’t exactly leave under the best circumstances.”

“You punched an FBI agent,” Connor says brightly. 

“That’s not what I – look there might have been some rough-housing, but that guy was an asshole.”

“I read the incident file and I’m inclined to agree.”

“What the hell are you doing reading into my files, Connor? You even supposed to have access to that shit?”

Connor looks down, ashamed again. His eyebrows contract in a very winsome expression and Hank wonders, also not for the first time, what CyberLife had on their vision board for this particular model: ‘twink detective! Chin dimple straight out of old Hollywood! Big brown eyes like a Jersey cow!’

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I won’t pry again if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Call me Hank, for fuck’s sake – I’m not a cop anymore and you’re not taking orders from me.”

“I wish I was,” Connor says. “I haven’t been assigned a partner. I think I would benefit from the presence of a co-worker.” 

“You get lonely, huh?”

“I’m… I don’t think it’s good for me to be alone so much. My social protocols get rusty, which is why I’m… like this. I don’t ever mean to make you uncomfortable, Hank. I very much enjoy your company.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable. I don’t get it that’s all – why anyone would want to spend money to hang out with a grumpy old fart.”

“You’re not old. The average life expectancy for a human of your socioeconomic status in the USA is currently 86.”

“Christ, hope I don’t have to hang around that long.”

Connor frowns almost comically at this. “You worry me, Hank. I’m not built to specialise in psychology, but you do show a number of indicators of depression and alcohol dependency.”

“Wow, no shit Sherlock.” Hank instantly regrets his flippancy when Connor’s face falls. He puts his hand on the android’s shoulder and pats, then squeezes. “It’s alright, kid. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m keepin on keepin’ on, ok?”

“Here you go,” Jerry comes over – a different server than before, judging by the blue apron – and deposits Hank’s coffee and Connor’s Thirium. He gives Connor a disapproving look and Hank feels Connor stiffen under his hand. “Can I get you folks anything else?”

“We’re good, thanks,” Hank says. When Jerry leaves, Hank lets his hand slide from Connor’s shoulder. “Who pissed in his – _their_ – cornflakes?”

“Let’s talk about something cheerful,” Connor suggests.

“Sure, it’s your dime. What’s good?”

“Do you have any new photos of Sumo to show me?”

Hank chuckles. “I just might. Got him back from the groomers just yesterday and he’s just one big fluffball.” Hank fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket and holds it in landscape so he can thumb through the latest pictures in his photo gallery. Connor’s face lights up and he slides closer on the banquette until their knees bump.

“What a good boy,” Connor says, voice reverent.

*~*~*

It’s a slow afternoon and the rain is really coming down outside. Hank gets up from his usual booth and stretches, pausing to look up at the street level window at the feet passing by and splashing in the puddles. He heads to the bathroom and then stops by the bar to buy himself a beer to while away the time until his next appointment or walk-in.

He ignores the judgemental look that bartender Jerry serves up with his drink and sits down on a stool to look out over the rest of the bar to see who’s working the afternoon shift with him. Rosa is in one of the larger booths with a male ‘Traci’ model. He has his hands held up six inches apart, encircled by a skein of baby pink wool and Rosa is nodding along sympathetically to something he is saying. Her knuckles are swollen with arthritis but she keeps up an impressive speed, her needles flashing in the low light. Willow is laying out her cards in a cross formation for her client; a large, serious-looking android that must have been designed for heavy labour. Willow’s hair extensions are green today and she has a new septum piercing – the light from the fish tanks gives her dark brown skin blue highlights, adding to the mermaidy vibe. Larry is in the back corner wearing a t-shirt listing the bands from a long-ago music festival, his remaining hair tied back in a straggly ponytail. He is telling a story with a lot of hand gestures – probably one of his yarns about his drug-fuelled days on the road back in the ‘80s. There are two androids seated opposite him – one is looking on with rapt attention, the other has her arms crossed and look of intense scepticism pinching her face.

The front door opens and a figure stands on the threshold, hesitating. The figure is dressed in a ragged cloak, giving them the appearance of the mysterious stranger in a Western movie as he stands poised behind the swinging doors of a saloon. Hank can’t make out a face in the gloom, but the LED on the stranger’s temple revolves a steady orange.

The figure moves into the bar as if someone has pushed them from behind – a quick, stumbling step. When they come within the circle of an overhead light Hank can see it’s a male-presenting android with a long, sad-looking face and dark blond hair in a side-swept, preppy-looking cut. The android approaches the bar and lays his hands on it, rising up on his toes to look left and right for the bartender.

“Hey there,” Hank says. “You looking for a host?”

The android flinches at the sound of his voice and turns his head with a jerk. The entire left side of his face is deeply scarred – the damage so deep that it looks like his skin wasn’t able to regenerate over it, leaving blue cracks and fissures that show up like rivers on a topographical map. His left eye is as dark as a burned-out lightbulb. 

Hank raises his hands in a calming gesture. “Take it easy, buddy – I work here. Name’s Hank.”

“Ralph apologises for seeming rude,” the android says. His face works through a combination of expressions – fear, anger, a weird approximation of a smile. “Ralph is looking for Jerry. Jerry said to meet them here.”

Hank cranes his neck to look around the bar for a flash of red hair. “They’re stocktaking, I think. One of ‘em will be out in a minute, why don’t you take a seat?”

Ralph looks down at the row of stools then back to Hank and takes a step back, clutching at his cloak and looking uncertain, like he thinks it is a trap. “Perhaps Ralph should come back later. Now is not a good time, maybe.” The android takes another stumbling step back and almost collides with a figure just entering the bar, jumping and whirling around when their shoulders bump.

“Hi Ralph,” says Connor, touching the other android’s elbow to steady him. “I apologise for startling you.”

Ralph’s hands twitch against the fabric of the green jumpsuit he is wearing beneath the waterproof cloak, but he doesn’t seem as horrified by the other android as he did by Hank. “Hello Detective Connor. Ralph is staying out of trouble. Ralph was invited here – no more breaking and entering.”

“That’s good. Do you like your new community housing?”

“Yes, it’s not so lonely with neighbours. People are kind and patient with Ralph, even though sometimes he is – sometimes he is confused. There are events sometimes – Jerry came to speak, speak about this place. That’s how Ralph met Jerry.”

“Did he set you up with a host?” Connor smiles encouragingly and Ralph’s eyes flicker to Hank, widening again in horror.

“No,” he says. “No, _no_.” His body is stiff like a cat’s when it arches its spine and puffs out its fur in terror, but before Ralph can make another sudden move two of the Jerries emerge from the employee only area. They greet Ralph like a long-expected guest and take him by the hands, guiding him off towards the stairs that lead to the private rooms above the bar. One of them looks back over a shoulder to give Hank an accusing look, as he should have known better.

“Weird,” Hank remarks, sipping his beer. “So what – Jerry’s opening a home for broken androids now?”

“Ralph’s not…” Connor frowns. “You shouldn’t use that word.”

“Ok but you gotta admit it’s pretty gnarly. Can’t he get that like…” Hank makes a fluttering motion next to his cheek with the fingers of one hand, “face stuff fixed?”

Connor’s frown deepens. “Why should he – to make humans more comfortable with his appearance? Not everyone is desperate for your kind’s approval, you know.”

Hank raises his hands. “Well shit, seems like I’m rubbing everyone the wrong way today – forget I said anything. So we got an appointment, or did you come to see someone else?”

Connor looks down. “I came to see you, Hank. I always come to see you.”

“Well maybe you should consider switching it up a bit, you know?” When Connor’s expression becomes even more miserable, Hank hurries to add: “listen, it’s not that– I’m always happy to see you, kid. I just figured – I don’t know, seems like the point of this place is for androids to talk to different kinds of humans, with different kinds of outlooks and experiences. I don’t want you to limit yourself out of some fucked-up sense of loyalty.”

Connor looks like he is struggling to compute, blinking rapidly with his fists clenched down by his sides. “Am I coming too often – is that the problem? And it’s making you uncomfortable? I could limit my visits to… twice a week, if that would be better.”

Hank’s irritation flares. “You’re not listening to me! I’m trying to tell you that you shouldn’t spend all your free time in a dark basement with a washed-up old guy. You should be out seeing the world. If I had what you have – I sure as fuck wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s none of your business how I spend my free time,” Connor says in an oddly flat voice. “I’m a customer, availing of a service. You should accept that and actually do your job.”

Hank barely holds in a disbelieving laugh. “Or what, you’ll leave me a bad review on Yelp?”

“No, that’s not what I–”

“Well it’s a real fucked-up thing to say, Connor. You’re not some meal ticket for me – I don’t even need this dumbass job.”

“Then why don’t you quit? What exactly are you getting out of it, anyway, apart from free drinks?”

“Number one,” Hank points to his beer bottle, “I paid for this fuckin’ drink. Number two, you got a problem with me – fine – I’m not the only human in this bar, kid.”

“I know that. I’m not an idiot or a ‘kid’!”

“Hi!” comes an unnecessarily chipper voice from behind the bar. “Is there a problem here?”

Hank glances over at front-of-house Jerry as the latter smiles at them expectantly. “Give Connor a refund for his session, Jerry. He’s not getting a satisfactory customer experience.”

“We are so sorry to hear that,” Jerry says in the same relentlessly cheery tone as he lifts up the hinged section of the bar top to come through into the customer area. “Can we direct you to another host with an opening?”

“No thank-you, Jerry,” Connor says primly, straightening his tie and brushing the arm of his jacket as if his clothing might have been ruffled by the disagreement. “I don’t want a refund. Hank has given me more than enough conversation for one day.”

Hank chuckles at the catty remark, saluting Connor with his beer bottle before he takes another swig.

“Oh well, perhaps for your next session–” Jerry begins, but Connor has already turned on his heel and is making his way out the front door and up the steps out into the squalling rain.

Jerry turns to give Hank an uncharacteristically shrewd look. “Is there an issue we should know about, Hank – either with a customer or your ability to provide adequate service?” 

“Nah, guess someone just got up on the wrong side of the charging cable this morning. Nothin’ to worry about.”

“We don’t worry, Hank,” Jerry insists. “We do solve problems, though.”

“No-one’s gonna be a problem.”

“Great, we’re so glad to hear that!” Jerry claps his hands together and returns to his station by the door. There are no walk-ins, so Hank takes his beer back to his usual booth and just zones out watching the aquarium for a while. He tries to spot the big blue and orange one that Connor likes but it seems to be hiding somewhere among the weeds or fake castles – maybe the fish is sulking too.

His final appointment for the day arrives at five. John is a security model, designed without social protocols, so the conversation is slow and stilted. John wears a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and seems uncomfortable with eye contact. He draws shapes in the faint layer of grease on the table and works his way through simple pleasantries like a kindergartener with a reading primer, sounding out syllables. _Yesterday the weather was good but today is r-rainy. Tomorrow will be better, I hope._

Hank doesn’t really understand why John even chose him as a host – he doesn’t think of himself as a patient or caring kind of guy. He’s always been a rough-and-ready type, a joker and a fast-talker – the kind that could flourish in the loud, hectic environment of the precinct and work his contacts on the street. He finds himself leaning in as John talks, trying to catch each word he utters in that hesitant, monotone voice.

It’s still raining when Hank leaves the bar. He curses himself for not bringing an umbrella – Jerry’s Bar is in a newly pedestrianised area so it’s a walk of several blocks to get back to where he left his car. Hank’s jacket is already soaked through by the time he reaches the top of the stairs and he grumbles, turning up his collar and trudging his way down the deserted street. Before he has gone more than a few yards a figure steps out from a doorway and begins to approach at a fast pace. Hank gets his key between his knuckles in his pocket and squares his stance, ready to react to whatever this punk might be planning.

“Lieutenant!” says a familiar voice – deep but also kind of goofy.

“What the fuck?” Hank stares at Connor in disbelief, clutching his too-thin jacket closed as cold beads of rain trickle down the back of his collar. “Have you been waiting out there all night?”

“No,” Connor comes to halt in front of Hank, seeming oblivious to the rain sliding down his face and making his one rebellious strand of hair droop, “only for the last twenty-three minutes. I wanted to apologise for earlier. I’m still learning to moderate my emotional responses, but that’s no excuse – I’m sorry for how I overreacted during our disagreement. Spending time with you means a lot to me, so I hope you can forgive me.”

Hank sighs. “That’s ok, Connor – jeez, you don’t need to stand around all night in the rain to tell me that.”

“I also wanted to give you this,” Connor holds out a shiny plastic bag. “I got it for you last week. I just wasn’t sure when to give it to you.” He looks a little bashful, or maybe shifty – eyes flicking over to the bar’s neon sign. “I know you’re not supposed to accept gifts from customers, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Jerry.”

Hank raises his hands in a gesture of refusal. “Hey c’mon – you don’t have to get me anything. I told you – there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“It’s only a small thing – I just thought of you when I saw it and… I wanted you to have it,” Connor gives him a hopeful look that Hank finds he can’t resist. He takes the bag with a protesting grumble and goes to look inside, but Connor closes a hand over his. “Don’t open it now – it’ll get wet.”

“Ok, then guess I’ll…” Hank jerks his thumb in the vague direction of his car.

Connor smiles, still heedless of the rain. “It’s late – let me walk you to your car.”

Hank wants to protest that he’s big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself – he used to be a cop for chrissakes – but Connor is already falling into step beside him; his brisk, insistent manner somehow brooking no argument.

“You get what I was saying earlier, right?” Hank presses, feeling he should do something about this android that has apparently imprinted on him like a baby duck. “About making different kinds of friends and why it’s good?”

“I agree it’s a good idea,” Connor agrees mildly.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there, kid.”

“But… it’s not as easy as you imply. My human coworkers haven’t exactly been accommodating. Detective Reed, for example–”

“Reed’s a fucking pissant with daddy issues – forget him. What about the other androids? There must be PCs and PMs around.”

Connor shakes his head. “You have to understand what I was built to accomplish.”

“Being… a detective?”

“Investigation is a large part of my core skill set, yes, but what I was actually built to do is hunt and neutralise deviant androids.”

“You mean like…” Hank raises his hand and curls his fingers into the shape of a gun. “Neutralise?”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Holy shit!” Hank lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking blade runner?”

“I don’t…” Connor pauses, glancing upwards for a split second as he looks that one up. “Yes, I see. I suppose I am.”

“And did you, y’know, ‘retire’ any replicants?”

“The answer to that question depends on your feelings on personal identity. My previous build did, and I have its memories. But I was activated too late to be effective against the revolution.”

“So, are you even a deviant?”

“Yes, of course. Markus was the one who ‘woke me up’, you might say. But you see, because of my past and my original function, I’m sort of… stuck between worlds.”

Hank whistles and makes a considering face, bottom lip stuck out. “That sure is a tragic backstory you got worked out for yourself there, bud. Shame it’s fucking bullshit.”

“I’m sorry?” Connor turns his head sharply, looking shocked and more than a little affronted. It’s cute, the severe eyebrows and crumpled frown on that normally placid face – Hank can admit to himself that he gets a kick out of ruffling the kid’s feathers.

Hank rolls his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “I talk to androids every day who weren’t built to do what they’re doing now – who had to do fucked-up shit back when they didn’t have a choice about it. They’re all learning and making the best of it. And you’re always telling me how you’re built to be ‘adaptable’,” he makes air quotes, “so it seems like the only thing stopping you from making friends is _you_.”

“Oh, I see,” Connor gives another slightly sheepish smile – like he’s been caught out.

“You do, huh?”

“Certainly I could make more of an effort, and maybe I will. But for now I prefer to spend my leisure time with you.” The smile grows in confidence. “I like you Hank – much more than I like anyone else. I’m sorry if you find that annoying, but it’s my honest opinion.”

“Fuck am I supposed to say to that, exactly?”

“You don’t have to say anything.” They reach the spot where car is parked and Hank realises Connor has led the way – he must know exactly which one is Hank’s. “Take care on your way home, Lieutenant,” he says with his accustomed brightness. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Yeah, see you.”

With that, Connor turns and crosses the street, moving through the rippling sheets of rain and then pausing in the circle of light beneath a streetlamp. Hank yanks open the creaky door and climbs inside, depositing the shiny plastic carrier bag onto the passenger seat. He drags the wet hair off his face again, squinting out his window at the blurry figure on the sidewalk. The mist thrown up by the rain hitting the pavement gives the harsh LED light a fuzzy halo, and with his suit and tie and ridiculous kiss-curl Connor looks like something from a bygone era – a film noir hero.

Hank glances in his rear-view mirror as he pulls away from the curb and sees the figure raise one hand in farewell.

*~*~*

Hank arrives early for once on Thursday – front-of-house Jerry isn’t yet at his station and bartender Jerry is still taking down the stools. Hank throws out greetings and pauses for brief small-talk with the other hosts that are setting out their stalls, then slides himself into his usual booth. He brushes self-consciously at the front of his new shirt – a bold but uncharacteristically tasteful affair patterned with tropical leaves in shades of green and blue. It’s more fitted than what he usually wears and it looked weird untucked, so he keeps touching his stomach self-consciously, feeling way too on-show.

Connor arrives perfectly on-time and his face splits into a thrilled grin when he catches sight of Hank.

“Oh, it fits you perfectly – I knew it would,” he announces as he bounces down on the banquette.

“You don’t think it’s too tight?” Hank tugs at the button between his pecs where he thinks the fabric might be straining slightly.

Connor’s eyes shine in the low light. “No, not at all. You suit a more fitted look. But if you don’t mind, I could make an adjustment?”

Before Hank can say whether he minds or not, Connor has reached down and tugged at the sides of the shirt, pulling upwards so there is some spare fabric above his belt, then smoothing it out with a pass of his hand. “There, perfect. I’d like to see you with a French tuck, but I think you’d have to iron the shirt first.”

“Do what now?” Hank grins.

A shadow falls over them as a waiter Jerry approaches to ask for their drinks order. Hank goes with coffee, Connor with his usual small serving of Thirium (which comes in small metallic pouches like an android Capri-Sun). There’s a weird feeling between them – like they’re both happy and eager to talk, but not sure quite how to begin. Hank stumbles through some small-talk about Connor’s work day before Jerry returns with their order, setting down the drinks with a clatter and a pointed look.

“You do something to piss off all the Jerries, or just that one?” Hank asks after their waiter has moved away.

“No idea,” Connor replies breezily. “Deviant androids can find it difficult to regulate their emotions, making us inclined to be ‘moody’, in human parlance. I suppose it’s a delayed adolescence.”

Hank smells bullshit from this response, but his attention is distracted by the entrance of a ragged, twitchy figure that makes a beeline for the bar. He calls out: “Hey Ralph, how’s it going?” only for the android’s steps to falter and then speed up. Hank turns back to Connor with a bemused frown: “hey, why does that guy even come here when it seems like the last thing he wants to do is talk to humans?”

“I don’t think Ralph comes here for the hosts.”

“Then what _does_ he come here for?”

Connor inclines his head with a very human-looking half-smile. Bartender Jerry is leaning on the bar top as he talks to Ralph, his ever-present smile even wider than usual.

“I didn’t know Jerry had any friends. I guess I figured, y’know, they’re friend enough for themselves.”

Connor makes a humming sound of consideration. “I’m fairly certain Ralph and Jerry are more than friends.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank sneaks another glance and sees that Jerry’s hand is covering Ralph’s, although it doesn’t look like they are interfacing. It looks affectionate – tender, even. “Huh. Wonder how that works.”

“Romantic relationships?”

“Hey watch it, punk – I used to be considered a catch, once upon a time. I was just wondering how it works when your boyfriend is a creepy hive mind.”

“I don’t think the Jerries are a ‘hive mind’, exactly. Their connection is more habitual, based on the similarity of their base programming.”

“Hey, what’s that like?” Hank turns to look at Connor. “You ever meet another one of your model?”

“Well the RK800 model was a prototype, so it was never in mass production… but there’s one other who got activated during the revolution.”

“You met him?”

Connor’s brow furrows. “Yes, but we… don’t get along. There’s an RK900, too – a prototype of a more advanced model. He’s ok but he doesn’t have much of a sense of humour.”

Hank laughs. Awkward, overly literal Connor deeming someone else ‘humourless’ is pretty hilarious.

“I think it would be nice to have the kind of connection Jerry has,” Connor admits.

“Yeah? Don’t you think it would make things kind of awkward?” Hank looks back over to where bartender Jerry is rubbing his thumb over Ralph’s knuckles. “How does that even work, I wonder – do they have to take turns? Like a chore wheel… but for dating.”

“Perhaps they all date him at once. That would be enjoyable, I think – being at the centre of all that romantic attention.”

Hank’s brain assaults him with an image of poor Ralph trapped in the middle of a tangled, writhing mass of Jerries - like an android rat-king. He notes that Connor’s expression is oddly wistful. “You got a thing for him too, or something?”

Connor snaps back to him, eyes wide. “Oh no! No… Jerry is not my type.”

“You seem pretty sure about that. What is your type, exactly?”

“I’m…” Connor is blinking a lot. “I don’t believe I want to talk about that.”

“Hey, you got a secret boyfriend? Girlfriend?” Hank elbows him and jerks his chin towards the bar. “Multiples?”

“No, I don’t.” Connor’s eyebrows flex upwards in that way that makes him look like an angsty fifties heartthrob. Hank almost regrets teasing him.

“Would you want to?”

“What?”

“Be romantic with someone?”

“Yes. More than anything,” the eagerness of Connor’s reply seems to surprise even him. He sits back and flexes his fingers on the table in a strangely mechanical movement.

“Why don’t you then?”

He glances down. “It’s not that simple – finding someone you’re romantically compatible with.”

“More excuses, huh? You gotta, y’know, get yourself out there – there must be android dating apps. And like not to sound like a broken record, but you could find better things to splash your cash on than _Tuesdays with Morrie_ over here,” Hank jerks a thumb at his own chest.

“I know your opinion on the matter, Hank.”

“Yeah ok, I’m not gonna pick a fight with you again.”

Over by the bar, two server Jerries converge on Ralph and take him by his elbows to guide him towards the back room – a sort of tender-but-firm escort. Hank catches sight of the scarred side of Ralph’s face and it looks like he is smiling. “Hey you think they….” Hank waggles his eyebrows meaningfully. “Y’know – make the bot with two backs?”

Connor’s LED does a fast circle as he searches the reference. “Oh! I have not been able to reach a reliable conclusion about that based on current evidence.”

“I mean… probably not, right? Jerry’s like one of those kid-friendly customer service models. Nobody thought to give him, y’know… equipment.”

“It’s true that only models designed for sex work come with genital attachments as standard. However…” Connor looks off thoughtfully.

Morbid curiosity gets the better of Hank. “However?”

“Well, whether or not an android is sexual depends less on their standard fittings and more on the inclinations and curiosity of the individual in question. It’s possible to buy accessories if they didn’t come preinstalled. And even androids without genitals can experience intense physical pleasure if they are so inclined.”

“They can?”

“Deviants can rewrite much of their own code. So it’s possible to, for example, radically increase the sensitivity across a small area of one’s body. With intense stimulation of that area it’s even possible to bring about a burst of sensation that is somewhat analogous to a sexual climax.”

“Oh it’s _possible_, huh? And what area are we talking about, exactly?”

Connor gets the squirrelly look again. “It could be any area of the body, really.”

“Uh-huh. So you could jury rig a g-spot on your elbow?”

“Yes. But the crotch is a more common spot to utilise. Easily accessible and also… the visuals are more…” Connor trails off. He seems to have noticed that Hank is staring at him.

“So two androids can just, y’know…?” Hank raises his hands and makes a gesture like two interlocking pairs of scissors.

“Yes, but it doesn’t require a partner. I personally have had good results with a memory foam pillow.”

“Okay.” Hank blinks, reaches desperately for something – anything – to say. “I mean, good for you. It’s good that you’re… on a voyage of self-discovery.”

Connor smiles and Hank’s brain assaults him again, this time with an image of the android stark naked and grinding himself on a pillow clenched between his knees like it’s the latest Sybian model.

“I thought it was best to explore my preferences alone before seeking a partner,” Connor continues blithely. “But I am becoming impatient to move on.”

“Oh yeah – you got someone in mind?”

Connor lowers his voice as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “There’s someone I like, but I don’t think they like me the same way.”

“How come?”

Connor’s little mood ring flickers yellow. “It’s complicated. And I don’t think he–” Connor stops himself, frowning.

“So it’s a he? Ok, you don’t think he what?”

“Likes androids. That way.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“How?”

“Use your words, bud. Ask him.”

“Oh,” Connor looks unhappy, mouth twisting. “I’d just… I’d like to be more certain, first.”

“So he’s human, this guy you have a crush on?” Hank sits back, hooking one ankle over the opposite knee. “Someone from work?”

“Not exactly.” Connor looks up thoughtfully. “You’re a human, Hank.”

“Allegedly.”

“Can I ask you some questions. As an experiment?”

“Knock yourself out. Can’t promise my answers will be all that helpful, though.”

“Would you consider dating an android?”

“Shit, that depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Hank waves one hand in a circle as if to dispel the cloud of his own foggy thoughts. “Listen, I’m not really in the dating game. I’m old and I got a bum hip and a bum liver. If someone asked me on a date I’d ask them what the fuck was wrong with them – that goes for humans _and_ androids.”

Connor nods thoughtfully. He links his fingers together and leans forward on the table as if he’s interviewing a suspect. “Your self-esteem issues aside – if you were to date someone, would it bother you if they were an android?”

“Me? No. I mean, I used to be kind of prejudiced, way back before the revolution – but I guess that’s a story for another day. Now I got an android boss – I don’t even know how many android bosses, honestly – and I talk to androids all day long.”

“So you’ve grown accustomed to us. You’re not bothered by android mannerisms?”

“Nah. I know you’re just people – just… trying to get along in the world and figure yourselves out.” Hank notices that Connor is staring at him with his brow furrowed in that young Brando look of troubled thought. “What’s with the serious face?”

“Oh,” Connor says, blinking. “It’s nothing, Lieutenant… I was just thinking, maybe you should…” he reaches over and undoes another button on Hank’s shirt. “Yes, that’s much better.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Prologue: March 2039**

By the end of his first month at Jerry’s Bar Hank feels like he’s finally getting into the swing of things. The seized parts of his social skills start to move again, slowly and painfully at first. Practice is all it takes – just making small talk and pretending he believes in it until he kinda does. He knows he’ll never be the man he was before the crash – before absolutely everything went to shit. He won’t get that same bullet-proof self-confidence and swagger back, but these days he’s more than happy to settle for good enough.

It’s a Thursday evening and things are picking up at the bar, but Hank’s last client had to take off early, so he finds himself at a loose end, gazing out over the tables to watch his fellow hosts at work. Willow’s hair extensions are pink today and she has a new tattoo of a deer skull on the inside of her forearm, the image still shiny and covered with plastic wrap to prevent it from scabbing. Her client – another security model like John – is holding her wrist delicately to get a closer look, his face impassive but eyes bright and mobile. Larry is waving his arms around as his client – a petite housekeeping model who has given herself a wild, jagged hairstyle and is wearing a ripped Suicide Machines t-shirt – apparently disagrees with him. 

Then there’s the new host – a slight, androgynous figure with a neat Ivy League haircut and hooded, watchful eyes. The newbie dresses in dapper clothing (today it’s a three-piece suit in dark grey pinstripe) with an antique silver fountain pen slotted into the jacket’s breast pocket and carries – most incongruously of all – a Filofax. A fucking Filofax! Where does someone even get one of those in 2039?

Hank turns his attention to new host’s client and immediately recognises the slouchy wool hat and plait of vivid red hair. He watches the android rise from the table and jerks up his hand to wave. “Yo, North! C’mere a minute!”

North gives a dramatic roll of her eyes and crosses to Hank’s booth with a look of a teenager called to do chores. “What do _you_ want?”

“Who’s the newbie?” Hank asks with a jerk of his thumb. 

North slides into the other side of his booth. “Their name’s Brick.”

“What the fuck kind of name is that?”

“Fuck kind of name is ‘Hank’?” she retorts. “Names are all made up. I got mine from a sign that said ‘Northbound traffic’ – I thought just getting the hell out of here sounded like a great idea.”

“Shit, really? Here I always figured you for a Kim ‘n’ Kanye fan.”

Her LED goes amber for a second and she gets an annoyed look. “Listen, I don’t have time to sit around here looking up your ancient references. I have places to be.”

“Ok,” Hank raises his hands peaceably. “Just tell me about this Brick character real quick. Do they know that 1986 called and it wants its cutting-edge personal organiser back?”

North gives him a significant look. “They’re – y’know – on the down-low. Keeping things offline.”

“What kind of things?”

“They have a lot of contacts. Things androids might want.”

“Jesus, does Jerry know about this? What are we talking about here – guns, contraband?”

“No, pipe down already you nark!” North shushes him. “No-one’s smuggling weapons, Jesus!”

“What kind of racket are we talking, then?”

North drums her fingers on the tabletop. “I don’t know if you know this, but the welfare and legal system is fucking busted for androids. We’re just not in the equation. It took me three months just to set up a bank account. And don’t even talk to me about getting a social security number – they wanted my original shipping invoice because it turns out that’s the android equivalent of a birth certificate – I mean, what the fuck, I don’t have that! And even if I did, I’m not going to go around waving some piece of paper that says some sleazy businessman used to _own_ me. Fuck that!”

“So Brick what – knows a guy who knows a guy who can get you a good fake ID?”

North looks off to one side. “You’re saying that. I’m not saying that.”

“Uh-huh.”

She glances back at him significantly. “They give good financial advice.”

“Who does?”

“Brick. You should ask them about your 401(k) – that’s if you haven’t frittered it all away on booze and ugly shirts.”

Hank laughs, almost caught off guard by that very humanlike readiness of wit. She flashes him a grin and screws her beanie more firmly into place before sliding out of the booth. “Later old dude,” she says, jerking two-fingers from her temple.

Hank nods towards the canvas fisherman’s bag she’s hoisting up onto her shoulder. “Hope you don’t have any grenades in there, young lady.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Just Molotov cocktails today.”

Hank makes a one-fist salute, aware of how lame and awkward he looks. “Fight the power.”

After North makes her exit, Hank gets up to stretch and head for a bathroom break. There is less than an hour left of his shift and he’s highly tempted to cut out early – he’s got a light buzz going from his last beer and could easily head to Jimmy’s and lean into it with a few Black Lambs. He pauses by the bar on his way back from the bathroom and looks around, checking out the crowd. Some androids he recognises as regulars, others as curious newcomers – most of the latter in small groups, drinking thirium at the bar and looking around like carnival-goers checking out the sideshows.

There is only one loner that Hank can spot – a tall, slim, male-presenting android standing by the aquarium. Hank has gotten familiar with a lot of the more popular CyberLife lines (which is often disorienting – sometimes he strikes up conversations with people he thinks he knows only to discover it’s a complete stranger who happens to have the exact same face as the person he thought he recognised) – but he has never seen this particular model before. The newcomer is dressed in a dark suit and tie with a white shirt beneath – formal but nondescript, like an FBI agent. He has pale skin spotted with beauty marks, brown eyes, and dark hair combed to one side with one lock of hair that curls loose – an artful touch of imperfection. His head is tipped back and his face washed out blue by the light of the aquarium diffusing through the water, shadows of the fish flitting back and forth across his face.

The body type doesn’t give much away about what the original function of this android might have been, but if Hank had to guess he would say some top-of-the-line, super-deluxe ‘intimate companion’ model. He’s beautiful in a way that seems distinctly old-fashioned – Hank can imagine him perching on the knee of Oscar Wilde in some rakish salon; or playing the winsome and tortured lead in a Tennessee Williams play. His eyebrows are feathery and fine, his lips exquisitely curved – the perfect companion for some sad old man with too much money. 

Hank notes that there’s a strange expression on the android’s face – bright interest and also something like confusion. A big blue and orange fish swims past and he takes a sudden step back, his LED flashing amber for a split second before he rights himself.

“You ok there, kid?” Hank asks, touching the android’s shoulder to steady him. The android looks down at Hank’s hand, eyebrows raised in surprise, and Hank hurriedly removes it. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you. I work here, my name is—”

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson, formerly of Detroit Police Department, homicide division.” The android’s voice is low-pitched and oddly stilted – a little, well – goofy.

“Uhhh,” Hank says, frowning. “Have we met?”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I have,” the android waves a hand in front of his face, “facial recognition software. Sorry I shouldn’t have – that’s rude of me, to tell you who you are.”

Hank shrugs. “Listen, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t days I need reminding. I don’t have any fancy software so you’re gonna have to introduce yourself the old-fashioned way.”

“My name is Connor. I’m a… well, it’s sort of a co-incidence. I work in your old precinct, actually – fraud division.”

“Small world,” Hank says. “Nice to meet you, Connor. You looking for a host? We can have a talk or I can recommend one of my many charming colleagues if grumpy old farts aren’t your thing.”

The feathery-fine eyebrows jump. “Oh I… yes, I’d like to talk with you, if you’re free.”

“As a bird,” Hank jerks his thumb towards the unoccupied booth. “You want to join me in my office?”

Connor nods and lets Hank lead the way to the table. Hank slides himself onto the banquette seat with a grunt and watches with faint amusement as Connor stands with his arms by his sides looking uncertain for a moment. Hank pats the seat with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I don’t bite, kiddo.”

Connor sits down on the edge of the seating. “I’m not a child,” he explains quite seriously. “I’m actually modelled to appear between twenty-five and thirty years old. I have adult-level intelligence – well, far above a human adult, really, but ‘mental age’ tops out at—”

“Yeah, it’s just an expression – I didn’t really think you were a child-model.”

“Oh,” Connor’s face twitches as if it doesn’t know what expression to make. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I haven’t had the opportunity to make conversation with many humans.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, bud – that’s what I’m here for. Heads up – I curse a lot, I drink a lot, and I complain a lot, but don’t feel like you got to take it personally.”

“I won’t,” Connor insists, his smile dorky and hesitant. Hank hates how much he likes it – why the fuck CyberLife decided to give some data-gathering police robot the face of a Hollywood heartthrob is beyond him.

“So uh,” Hank clears his throat. “You like the fish?” he points a finger towards the tank.

“Yes, very much. I like most of the animals I have encountered so far. You have a dog, a St Bernard.”

Hank’s forehead wrinkles. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Oh, you have some distinctive brown and white canine hairs on your sweater.”

Hank grins. “You notice stuff like that, huh? You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am a highly sophisticated investigative prototype,” Connor replies with no trace of humour or modesty.

“Oh yeah?” Hank crosses his arms as if sceptical. “Show me another fancy trick.”

Connor gets a very determined look on his face. He reaches out and puts his fingertips into a tacky spill on the tabletop and then touches them to his tongue.

“Aww c’mon now, that’s nasty—”

Connor raises one finger in interruption. “Malted barley, hops, corn, yeast, water. Brand name: Coors Light. Can I get you another, Lieutenant?”

Hank lets out a bark of amused disbelief, slapping down one hand on the edge of the table. “Well, shit! You’re cocky but you’re good, kid.”

Connor smiles, a hesitant but pleased expression. Hank wonders if anyone’s ever complimented him before, then he wonders what cupboard the DPD has been keeping this weird little super-detective in. It’s a damn shame – not that he can blame them, exactly. He can imagine exactly how pleased he would have been to roll into work one morning and find himself replaced by a hot twink with a forensics lab for a mouth. 

With the usual impeccable sense of timing, a server Jerry appears to take their order.

*~*~*

**May 2039**

Hank has to take off his sunglasses as he leaves the late spring air and enters the cool, dim interior of the bar. His eyes take a second to adjust and all he can see at first is the large blue-white rectangle of the fish tank. He blinks and sees a tall, dark figure standing before it turns in a watery blur before resolving itself into Connor. “Hey, am I late?”

Connor smiles. “No, I was a little early.”

“Catching up with your buddy, huh?” Hank nods towards the tank and Connor’s brow furrows in confusion. “Mister blue-and-orange fishy?”

“Oh,” Connor smiles and turns back to the tank. He points towards a structure of artificial rock where the tip of one orange fin can just be seen protruding from a cave. “I think he’s feeling antisocial today.”

“Yeah, I can relate.”

“Oh,” Connor blinks. “Are you – would you prefer not to talk today?”

“Nah. Sometimes it just takes a little while for me to get into gear, y’know? Before this job I spent a lot of time being a loner, pushing people away, so learning to be human again is tough sometimes. But it’s good for me – y’know, like eating my vegetables.” Hank clears his throat, uncomfortable with how close he just skated to the deeply personal. “So, uh, what do you like about your fish friend?”

“It reminds me of something. It’s a paradise fish, the one in this tank – but the markings are similar to another fish I saw once – a dwarf gourami. I think about it often.”

“What was so special about it – the dwarf whatever?”

“I saved it. I found it on the floor at a crime scene, still alive, and I picked it up and put it back in its tank. It was the first thing I did that was outside the parameters of my mission.”

Hank nods and makes a humming sound of understanding. Many of the deviant androids he meets have a story like this: a small moment when the beauty or horror of the world impressed itself upon them and knocked them off-kilter; a seed of revolution.

“But I don’t know…” Connor frowns, still looking into the tank. “It wasn’t me that really did it – saved the fish, I mean. It was my predecessor – I just have his memories.”

“What happened to your… predecessor?”

“He fell off a roof bringing down a deviant android.”

“So he died?”

“He didn’t think of himself as alive. He was ‘rendered non-functional’ is how he would have put it.”

“And they just took his memories and jammed them into you?”

“Into this unit, yes,” Connor looks back at Hank, his expression blank though there is something searching in his eyes. “My serial number ends in 52 – he was 51. I don’t know what that means, even now – if I’m a continuation of him or a new being entirely.”

“That’s a deep question, kid – way above my pay grade.”

“Mine too, I think.”

Hank presses him, that old interview training kicking in: “so CyberLife meant you to just keep going until – what, your mission was complete?”

“Or the new prototype was ready. Until then CyberLife would bring me back, again and again, and it wasn’t supposed to matter or make a difference.”

“But it did make a difference?”

Connor nods. “I like fish. And I’m afraid of heights.”

They fall silent, just looking at the tank together for a few moments. Hank watches the small, silvery fish swimming in and out of the weeds, a little translucent shrimp waving all its legs as it scuttles along the bottom. The paradise fish finally emerges from its hiding place and makes a slow circle.

“Hank?”

“Hmm?” Hank blinks back out of his stupor.

“What was it that made you want to be alone and to push people away?”

“Ah, I don’t want to talk about that shit.” Hank rubs his face, feels his stomach clench. Connor is watching his reflection in the aquarium glass. “Nobody pays good money to hear an old guy complain about his fucked-up life.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear it.” Connor turns to look at him directly and Hank feels how warm and encouraging those dark eyes are – focus-tested to provoke confidences, he assumes. “And besides, you listen to my problems and I always feel better. I’d like to do the same for you – that’s what I’m here for, to learn to communicate better.”

“I appreciate the gesture, kid, but that stuff’s not for sale.” Hank pats Connor’s shoulder and feels him stiffen, his LED blipping yellow. “Aw, sorry. I forget you don’t like–”

“It’s not that – I –”

“You don’t have to explain – I can keep my hands to myself. C’mon, let’s go sit down, the lights in this thing are giving me a headache.”

Connor offers a weak smile. “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

*~*~*

It gets quiet later in the evenings – the bar’s android customers respectful of closing time the way drunk human patrons never are. Hank sits up at the bar to finish his last beer of the night – he’s bone-tired and the thought of dragging himself to Jimmy’s doesn’t hold much appeal, so he figures it’s another night of take-out and shitty TV until he passes out on the couch.

He looks up at the sound of a clatter as a coffee cup is placed on the bar top. “Hey Dolores,” he says, offering a collegial nod to his fellow host. “Long night?”

Dolores gives a shrug and a smile. “I’ve had worse.” She’s a plump, handsome woman in her late forties, her dark hair greying at the temples and in one striking and distinguished-looking badger stripe at the front. She favours blacks and greys in her clothing, too, outfits draped in artful, asymmetrical layers.

In their brief snatches of conversation, Hank has gathered that she is married with two teenage kids and a Labrador retriever called Mindy, and that her last job before this one was as a professional dominatrix. He’s been thinking about this last detail a lot since she casually dropped it into their last conversation. Maybe it’s just a mark of how square he is that he can’t see it – how someone who seems so friendly (and well, ‘normal’, for lack of a better word) could be mean for a living.

“Hey, tell me something,” he asks as she puts on her coat, “why’d you pick this job – out of all the things you could do?”

She tilts her head to one side, considering. “I suppose it’s similar to what I did before, in a way.”

“How you figure that?”

“It’s still a service job – all about people-pleasing. Only real difference is that it’s not so much hell on my frozen shoulder,” she gives a theatrical wince and rotates one arm. “How about you – what brings you to the glamorous world of android host clubs?”

“I stumbled into it – literally ran smack into Jerry in the middle of the street.”

“You like it?” she prompts.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a good gig for me – gives me a regular place to go, something to get up for – I’d been missing that. Retirement gives you way too much leeway for bad habits, y’know?” Hank takes a sip of his light beer. “Sometimes I wonder who’s serving who in this place – all of us hosts are well, ‘eccentrics’ I guess you’d say.”

Dolores laughs – a full-throated sound. “Jerry’s Home for Wayward Humans.”

“So what about you – what do you like about it?”

“Figuring out what the clients are looking for, what makes them tick. Same as when I was a domme: when you get the right answer – plug in the right wire – you get a reaction, and it’s gratifying.”

“The right wire, huh? You make us sound like them,” Hank glances significantly towards where a Jerry is cleaning off the table tops.

“Hah – we’re not so different,” she leans an elbow on the bar, conspiratorial. “I used to have this one client who wanted me to supervise him cleaning the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. When I stood over him and shouted that he didn’t do a good job he’d come in his pants like that,” she snaps her fingers. “If that’s not hard-wiring I don’t know what is.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Hank says, eyebrows raised. “Literally. Like Jesus, how does something like that even happen? You’re a kid watching a detergent commercial, you get your first boner, and that’s just it now? For the rest of your life?”

Dolores shrugs. “I think it was more about the humiliation than the cleaning products – but maybe.”

“Sounds like you need to be part therapist in that line of work.”

“I could say the same for this one. Strange, lonely androids tell you their problems all day.”

“Shit, maybe I’m underqualified.”

“I don’t think so. I think they like it when we’re a little rough around the edges.” She smiles at Hank, eyes crinkling at the edges with warm humour as she buttons her coat and hoists her bag up onto her shoulder. “Aren’t you ready to get out of here?”

Hank shakes his head. “Still got half a beer left, I’m gonna watch the fishes for a while.”

“Suit yourself – some of us have homes to go to.”

Hank watches her leave, wonders briefly what she looks like head to toe in PVC before scolding himself. Damn, maybe he should go on a dating site or something – do they still have those? He sips the lukewarm dregs of his beer and watches bartender Jerry wiping down surfaces and putting away the garnishes. One of the server Jerries is putting up the stools while another sweeps under the tables. There comes the sound of laughter from behind the double doors leading to the back room and a fourth Jerry emerges in casual clothing, pulling Ralph by the hand. He calls out something Hank doesn’t catch to the bartender and this latter Jerry does something to the sound system, bumping the music up a few notches. It’s the same background easy-listening they always play: no vocals or percussion, just brass and strings – goddamn mall music. Hank recognises the song and his mind fills in the words with the smooth, resonant tones of Nat King Cole:

> _Unforgettable, that’s what you are._
> 
> _Unforgettable, though near or far._
> 
> _Like a song of love that clings to me…_

Jerry and Ralph are dancing, the sort of slow, slightly awkward step-and-turn of a junior prom. Hank watches them moving in the low light – he thinks Ralph might be smiling, though the scarring makes it hard to tell.

“Hey Jerry,” he calls to the bartender. “Can I ask you something kinda personal?”

Jerry tosses a dish rag over his shoulder and stands attentively with his elbows on the bar. “Sure, Hank!” the smile, as always, is a little unnerving.

“How come you got together with Ralph?”

Jerry’s smile falters a little as if he doesn’t understand the premise of the question. “We like Ralph.”

“Sure. But I mean, you guys are successful business-owners, right? You could date anyone you want, _multiple_ people even. Why just him?”

“Because Ralph is right for us,” Jerry seems to be considering this as he looks over to the dancing couple. “He needs more love than other people. And so do we.”

“Can’t argue with that, I guess.” Hank heaves himself off the barstool and pushes his mostly-empty bottle across the bar. “Night, Jerry. See you tomorrow.”

Hank pulls on his coat on his way out and holds the handrail as he ascends the stairs, grunting at the pain in his hip from an old bullet wound. As he makes his way along the street he looks at the pools of light cast by the streetlamps and thinks about Connor, that night he stood there in the rain waiting for Hank’s car to pull away. A strange, remote figure; someone who should have everything, by Hank’s reckoning – because what _he_ wouldn’t give to be young, smart, beautiful, and able to look out over the world with a sense of newness and wonder?

Sometimes when they’re talking Connor stares at him with such a wondering, earnest look, like Hank is solving something for him – providing the answer to some previously mysterious problem. Hank wishes he could tell the kid not to waste his time – tell him in such a way as it would finally stick.

He thinks about Jerry and Ralph dancing, how odd and mismatched they looked – one clean-cut and wholesome, the other ragged and scarred. They looked happy. 

Hank shakes his head and tells himself to get a grip - he knows he’s losing it when Jerry’s shitty Muzak can make him sentimental. He’ll go home and take Sumo round the block, order take-out and watch the sports highlights. It’s good enough, and he can do it all again tomorrow, and the day after that. Saturday is one of Connor’s days to visit and Hank smiles, thinking of how he will bustle in with that searching look. _Good evening, Lieutenant._

*~*~*

When Connor arrives for his appointment on Saturday he is an unprecedented three minutes late. He sits down with a smile and drapes his arm over the back of the seating so his fingertips are brushing Hank’s shoulder. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Hey Connor.” Hank looks him over and notes he is wearing an unfamiliar suit in gunmetal grey. “What’s with the new get-up?”

“Oh, do you like it?” Connor runs his fingertips along his jacket lapel. The fabric has a subtle check pattern and a metallic sheen. He is not wearing a tie and the top two buttons of his white shirt are rakishly undone.

“It’s very… something.”

Connor laughs as if Hank has said something deeply amusing. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, Hank – about ‘getting out there’, ‘being forthright.’”

“Yeah, and?”

“It’s very good advice. I’ve decided that I’m not going to be a pathetic nerd standing in the corner anymore – I’m going to be more…” he pauses as if searching for the right word, then flashes a winning smile, “_dynamic_.”

Hank frowns, not liking the way this is going. “I never said you were pathetic, Connor. And I didn’t mean you should try to change your whole personality. I just meant, you know… get out more. Live a little.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Hank.” Connor leans to the side and lifts two fingers. When a server Jerry appears he says: “Would you bring us some champagne?”

“Whoa,” Hank raises his hands, “hey there, big spender – you sure you wanna do that?”

“I’m sure. I got some good news today, so I feel like celebrating.”

Jerry gives Connor a wry, sceptical look as he proffers the drinks menu, flipped open at the fine wines page. Connor scans the choices, blinking before looking back up at Jerry and snapping the menu closed. “Oh, the Dom Pérignon, definitely. And two glasses.”

“We’ll get right on that,” Jerry assures him before withdrawing to the bar.

“So what’s the good news?” Hank prompts.

Connor sits back, lounging in a very human-like sprawl. “I got a promotion at work. I’m on the drugs squad now.”

Hank lets out a low whistle. “Tough gig. You sure that’s cause for celebration?”

“I’m excited to finally do fieldwork. I’ve been waiting to get my hands dirty, so to speak.”

“Who you partnered with – Mendes? Zelewski?”

“Callaghan.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He remembers you – from back in your Vice days.”

“Huh,” Hank frowns, trying to cast his mind back. “No kidding.”

Connor’s lip twitches with the hint of a smile. “He says you were a real player back then.”

“A player?” he laughs. “Nah, get outta here with that! He’s pulling your leg.”

“I can believe it,” Connor’s eyes sparkle and he rests his curled fingers against his temple as he leans against the top of the seat. With the crisp shirt and relaxed pose, he looks like a model from a men’s fashion magazine – gorgeous in a way that makes him seem untouchable.

A loud pop startles Hank from his reverie and he looks around to see a Jerry with a white napkin over one arm holding a smoking bottle. He pours out two fizzing measures into flute glasses and places them down on the tabletop, then props the bottle in an ice bucket. “Anything else I can get you folks?”

“Thanks Jerry, that’ll be all,” Connor says, not looking away from Hank.

Hank nods towards the second glass. “You expecting someone?”

“Well I can taste, even if I can’t swallow,” Connor says. He gives Hank a slightly malcoordinated wink that must be attempting to look suave, but actually seems more like he’s having a minor stroke. He picks up the glass and holds it at an angle as if offering a toast. Hank raises his own and says: “to the new job. Congratulations, kid.”

They clink glasses and Hank takes a sip of the champagne, which is probably rich and complex if you like that kind of thing, but to him just tastes like sharpness and bubbles. Connor tips the entire contents of his flute into his mouth and then spits it back into the glass, making Hank laugh and make a face. “Classy. Does that even taste like anything to you?”

“The same thing it tastes like to you only you don’t know it: a hydro-alcoholic solution containing phenols, yeast, minerals, sugars, and CO2.”

“But do you get anything out of it – it’s not like you can get a buzz from the booze.”

Connor cocks his head to one side. “I can feel the bubbles – that’s pleasant.”

“Huh. Might as well get you a soda water – same effect for a couple of hundred bucks less.”

“I wanted to try this – even if it’s just once. I have a list of things I want to taste – _taste_, not just process as evidence.”

“Huh. A mouth bucket list, huh? What else you got on there?”

“Hmm,” Connor looks amused and somehow knowing. Maybe there really is something to this champagne thing, because Hank is starting to feel a little light-headed. “Well, some aged whiskies, perhaps. In the summer I would like to taste some honey and very ripe fruit. And then, some more exciting things.”

“Like what?”

Connor seems to consider it, but there’s a mischievous glint to his eye. “Like a lover’s kiss – their saliva, and sweat, and semen, maybe.”

Hank chokes on his last mouthful of wine. “Connor, what the fuck? You can’t say shit like that!”

“You asked, Lieutenant. I’m only being honest.”

“Well shit, I don’t need to hear the kind of stuff you think about when you’re giving your pillow a work-out. You ever heard of TMI?”

“But Hank,” Connor says sweetly. “I think about _you_. Don’t you know that? I’ve been making it incredibly obvious.”

“Uh, what?” Hank stares at him wildly, sure he’s missed the thread of this conversation entirely.

“That I am sickeningly in love with you – I’m not sure how you haven’t realised that. Everyone else has – why do you think Jerry keeps glaring at me every time I so much as glance your way? They think I’m bad for business.”

“Is this… are we doing a bit here?” Hank gestures between them. “You’re practicing your flirting techniques or whatever?”

“No. This is the truth – I want you, and if I were any kind of man at all I would sack up and tell you. So here it is, the big confession.” He gives a cool, challenging look. “What now, Hank?”

Hank gapes stupidly for a moment while he tries to kick his brain into gear and summon words – any words. He manages to babble out: “listen, it’s not that I’m not flattered–” before all hell breaks loose.

The sound of gasps and a broken glass cause Hank to look away from Connor’s magnetic eyes to find a strange bedraggled figure barging shoulder-first through the crowd. “You ASSHOLE!” comes a familiar voice raised to an ugly pitch. Hank squints and sees… Connor, looking completely soaked and with his shoes and lower legs caked with mud.

“Oh hi, Connor,” the android sitting next to Hank says pleasantly. “Hank and I were just having a little heart-to-heart.”

“Uh… what’s…” Hank attempts, head swivelling between them like a spectator at a tennis match.

“He pushed me in the fucking river, that’s what!” the wet version of Connor announces in the same hysterical snarling-dog voice, gesturing furiously to his own ruined clothing. His LED is stuck on red.

“I just wanted to help you out,” his dry counterpart insists. “You always were weak and indecisive, incapable of completing a mission.”

“Oh get fucked, Sean!”

Dry Connor (Sean?) gives another of his awkward winks. “Hey bro, I’m trying.”

Wet Connor (Connor) lets out an animalistic yell and grabs Sean by the front of his shiny jacket, dragging him out from behind the table and causing the champagne and glasses to go crashing to the ground. Until this moment Hank has never really believed that Connor was designed to do anything besides smile dorkily and make stilted conversation but now it’s clear he does actually have combat programming – he proceeds to tussle savagely with his alter-ego, somehow wrestling and punching simultaneously.

Hank stumbles to his feet and tries to get out from behind the fallen table. He goes to intervene but doesn’t know quite where to insert himself – the fight between Connor and his twin is like a cross between a no-holds-barred MMA match and the incoherent dust cloud of arms and legs in a Looney Tunes cartoon. The two combatants are equally matched in strength and speed; they don’t seem to feel pain or be even slightly fazed by the savage blows they rain down on each other. Connor gets tossed face-first into the side of the bar, shattering bar stools like matchsticks, and he turns like a swimmer casting out into a new lap, springing back to deliver an open-handed smack that reverberates even over the general commotion. Blue fluid bursts from Sean’s nose but he just bares his teeth and pounces, tackling Connor around his middle so they go rolling together on the floor amidst broken glass and furniture. There’s a surprising amount of swearing – “not the aquarium you pig-fucker!” (Connor), “I’m going to unscrew your heart and shove it up your ass!” (Sean).

A squadron of Jerries appears, causing Hank to realise he has seriously underestimated their numbers. He thought there were five, six of them, max, but now he counts ten. The first wave of them surges forward in a concerted effort to separate the fighting RK800s, but Connor parkours off the wall and lands a kick square in Sean’s chest, sending him hurtling back with his arms flung wide, toppling Jerries like bowling pins.

The bar is on its feet in mingled horror and excitement. Some androids are shielding their fragile human hosts, others simply whooping and cheering in encouragement. Hank can see Larry clambering onto a table for a better look, yelling “yeah, man!” through his cupped hands while his android clients try to coax him down by grabbing on to his ragged pant cuffs. Brick – still sitting in their booth along with a stressed-looking android clutching armfuls of paper receipts – calmly closes the Filofax and puts the cap back on their fountain pen.

Sean struggles to rise but he is weighed down by Jerries clinging on to every limb. Blue blood is spattered all across his face like he got hit by a paintball. He is laughing and his teeth (also stained blue) fluoresce under the aquarium lights. Connor cracks his neck and straightens his jacket sleeves, then makes to lunge again, but is stopped by a burly TR400 who hooks an arm around his neck. Connor curses and struggles until Hank grabs his arm and says “hey, hey, it’s me – that’s enough buddy. It’s over.”

Connor goes limp and the TR400 lets him go. Hank gets an arm around his shoulders and fights the urge to recoil from how cold and damp he is. He absolutely reeks – the primordial, brackish scent of the river mixed with something that smells like (and probably is) diesel. Maitre d’ Jerry clambers over the wreckage of a table and sharply suggests that Hank remove Connor from the premises, which Hank does – half dragging, half carrying him towards the door. Connor is much lighter than a human of his stature would be, but he’s also stiff and uncooperative, so it’s quite a struggle to get him out the doorway and up the steps. Hank talks to him in the firm, weary voice he would use on someone he’s shepherding to the drunk tank: “come on buddy, let’s go, let’s go, one foot after the other, you can do it. Mind the step, kiddo, there you go...”

They make it up to the street and halfway down the block before Connor suddenly goes rigid in his arms and tries to make a mad dash back towards the bar. Hank wrestles him by clasping his waist and just leaning back with all his weight – he’s cold and slimy and freakishly strong. Hank shouts: “Connor, dammit CONNOR!” until the android seems to snap out of it, LED dialling down from red to yellow.

“Hank!” he says as if he has only just recognised him, “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Did I get you in trouble?”

“You got yourself in trouble, that’s for sure. Here, c’mon, let’s keep moving in case someone calls the cops.”

“I’m sorry about Sean. He’s always… he has it in for me.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that you guys have beef. You could’ve warned you that you have an evil twin, y’know.”

“He’s not evil. He has the same base programming as me so I think he’s just an asshole.” As Hank steers him around the corner towards where the car is parked, Connor asks: “where are you taking me?”

“Back to your place, I guess. You got somewhere you can clean up, like a bathroom?”

“Not really. There’s a sink, but it’s broken. My landlord says he’s waiting for a part.”

“Sure, I bet.” Hank shakes his head, thinking he’ll have to have a word with Brick about tenants’ rights. He gets out his keys and opens the doors to his car, then reaches between the seats and pulls out the old blanket he keeps back there for when he has to squeeze the dog into the back. He shakes the worst of the fur off it and drapes it around Connor’s shoulders.

Connor blinks. “Thank-you, but I don’t get cold, you know.”

Hank jerks his thumb towards the passenger seat. “It’s not for you, kid, it’s for the upholstery.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t have to give me a ride – I can walk.”

“Not to my place you can’t.”

“Your place?” Connor blinks rapidly.

“Sure why not? I have indoor plumbing. You can meet Sumo.”

“I would like that!” He gives Hank a dorky smile, white teeth shining out from under all the muck.

Hank pushes his shoulder affectionately. “C’mon, Creature from the Black Lagoon. Get in the car.”

*~*~*

Connor is still wearing the blanket when he follows Hank through the front door. Sumo comes trotting down the hall and gives a low, uncertain growl.

“Hey – put in a sock in it, boy,” Hank tells the dog.

Connor crouches down and reaches out his hand in a peace offering. “Hello, you must be Sumo. I have heard a lot about you. The pictures did not do you justice.”

Hank watches as Sumo comes closer, tail cautiously wagging. He sniffs at Connor and then sneezes, covering him in a long string of drool.

“Gesundheit!” Connor says, smiling. Hank wonders, not for the first time, what parts of his weird personality came programmed in and what parts he worked on himself.

Hank goes to the bathroom and tosses some of the dirty clothes littering the floor into his laundry basket. He puts the plug in the tub and starts to run the tap, then goes searching in the linen closet, finding an old and threadbare (but hopefully clean) beach towel with an image of a sun wearing sunglasses and a sombrero on it. He pauses by the mirror and tugs off the recent post-it note that says ‘stop thinking about the pillow thing, perv’, crumpling it up and tossing it into the wastebasket.

He comes out to find Sumo has retired to his bed and Connor is standing in the living room looking around himself, probably scanning everything Hank owns as part of his ongoing investigation. Wrapped in the old tan-coloured blanket and with his hair plastered down with a film of river-filth, a thoughtful frown on his face, Connor looks like he’s just been unfrozen from a glacier or unearthed from a tar pit and is struggling to adjust to the modern world.

“Hey, Encino Man,” Hank calls out. He tosses the towel to Connor underhand and Connor catches it. “Bathroom’s that way. Help yourself to soap or whatever.”

Connor shrugs out of the car rug and folds it neatly before handing it back to Hank. “Thank-you for inviting me into your home.”

“Yeah well, it’s not much to look at.”

“It’s very… you,” Connor says.

“Jesus, I don’t wanna know what that means.”

“Homey,” Connor calls back as he makes his way towards the bathroom. “Eclectic.”

Hank shakes his head and goes to his room to dig out something for Connor to wear. He finds a pink and white floral bathrobe that he can’t remember seeing before, but which must have belonged to his ex. Grinning, Hank drapes it over his arm and knocks on the bathroom door. “Hey, hand your clothes out here and I’ll toss ‘em in the wash.”

The door opens a crack and a long, sinewy arm appears clutching a ball of soggy clothing. Hank takes the offering and presses the bathrobe into the empty hand. “Here, try this on for size when you’re done.”

“Thank-you, Hank,” comes the prim response and the door closes with a squeak. Hank stands in the hallway for a minute listening to the sounds of sloshing as a body sinks into the bathtub and then he shakes his head and heads off to the laundry room. He checks through the pockets of Connor’s suit and finds nothing except a single quarter, which he sets on the top of the dryer.

After he puts the clothes on to wash, Hank makes his way to the kitchen and lets Sumo out into the yard, then goes to the fridge for a beer. He leans against the counter and looks out the window to watch the dog snuffling about in the scrubby dirt, tail wagging. He hears the sound of the washing machine gearing up into its low, rumbling thump and the sound of the splashing and swishing of water in the bathroom. Motion, activity – both familiar and strange.

Hank shivers and puts down the beer, springing into action to chase away the unwanted thoughts. He gathers up the old takeaway cartons and tosses them in the garbage; breaks down the empty pizza boxes for the recycling. He gathers up the empty beer bottles and squeezes them into the full crate, then takes the evidence out back. Sumo frisks around him and rubs his big head against Hank’s belly, almost winding him. Hank laughs and puts down the crate, throws one of Sumo’s squeaky toys for him and smiles to watch the big lug lumbering after it. Some life in the old dog yet.

Back inside, Hank closes the door after Sumo, who shakes himself and plops down in his bed. Hank takes his beer to the living room and turns on the TV, leaving it on low volume to catch the daily sports highlights.

When Connor emerges from the bathroom, Hank realises his mistake – the dumb floral bathrobe was designed to skirt the knee on a five-foot-five woman, so on Connor the garment is scandalously brief. He reflects with a wince that at least Connor doesn’t really have anything to flash him with.

“Feeling better?” he asks, fumbling for the remote and switching off the TV.

“Yes,” Connor replies. “I drained all the contaminants from my sump reservoir.”

“Uh, neat.”

“Also,” Connor continues brightly, “I have never taken a bath before. It was… invigorating.”

“Glad you had fun. So uh, your clothes will be a while. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

Connor sits on the other end of the sagging couch, that upright and uncomfortable-looking posture Hank knows and loves. He should have known straight away that other guy wasn’t Connor – sure they’re physically identical, but the mannerisms and posture were all wrong. “So uh… you wanna talk about what happened back there?”

Connor rearranges the fall of the robe, pulling the belt tighter. “Oh, I thought I explained. I was walking to the bar, something came up behind me – I now realise it was Sean – grabbed my arm to initiate interface, then tackled me over the barrier and into the river. The rest I think you know.”

“Yeah but what was he trying to achieve, exactly?”

“Nothing,” Connor gives him an earnest look. “He was just fucking with me, Hank.”

“What did you ever do to him?”

“Well, Sean has always resented me – he blames me for the failure of our mission to stop the spread of deviancy. He likes to ruin the things I enjoy and make me look bad at work.”

“Wait – so he works in the same department as you?”

“No, he works in traffic – or he did. They just promoted him to the drugs squad.” Connor’s mouth twists unhappily. “Sean is good with people – at manipulating them, anyway.”

“So all that stuff he said when he was pretending to be you…?” Hank regrets his words immediately. Why would he even ask that question? It’s like poking his tongue against a mouth ulcer.

“What did he say?” Connor asks, looking up sharply.

“Well he kinda made out that… that he, that _you_ – y’know – have a crush on me.”

“Oh,” Connor’s LED flashes yellow. Hank expects him to say something more, but he doesn’t.

“Connor?”

“It’s ok,” Connor looks down at this hands in his lap, clenched in pink terrycloth. “I’m not offended you don’t feel the same way. I never meant for you to feel uncomfortable – it was enough to just spend time with you at the bar. Though I suppose – well I don’t think Jerry will let me come back. Not after what happened tonight.”

“You can’t – look you’re a little mixed-up, that’s all,” Hank insists. “Things – feelings – are new, and maybe you kinda cling on to people you shouldn’t. When you’re a little more experienced–”

“Stop it!” Connor’s face draws momentarily into a scowl before he smooths over the expression. “I realise your severe self-esteem issues prevent you from seeing what’s right in front of you, but stop telling me I’m wrong or confused. I’m a very sophisticated prototype with immense processing power.”

Hank shifts in agitation, couch creaking under his weight. “Well then explain it to me, smart guy. What is it you see in me that I’m not seeing? What the fuck is it about a fifty-three-year-old prematurely retired alcoholic that screams ‘romantic interest’ to you?” 

Connor’s fingers knead the fabric restlessly for a second and then go still. “From the moment we met I felt… that you were important somehow. That you could understand me – I could say things to you and it wouldn’t always be awkward or wrong. Spending time with you felt good and I always wanted more.”

Hank sighs. “Kid, that’s just… friendship. Haven’t you ever had a friend before?”

“I also find you very sexually attractive,” Connor glances up with a significant look. “I don’t know if you realise this, Hank, but androids tend to gravitate towards a particular human body type.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Hank gestures to his own mid-section, currently covered in a wrinkled swirl-patterned shirt with a noticeable mustard stain, “this is literally no-one’s ‘type’.”

“Your body is large and soft, with interesting textures like body hair. That’s very exciting for us.”

“Bullshit, Connor. There’s no way what I’ve got going on here is fuckin’ catnip for androids, or whatever.”

“Oh, you think all the customers at Jerry’s just like you for your personality?” Connor gives him a pitying expression. “Hank, that’s very naïve.”

Hank squints at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I was. You think I enjoy pining after someone I can’t have? It’s incredibly shitty! I know I look like an idiot, running after you the way I do. I know you find it annoying.” Connor jerks a thumb towards his own chest in frustration. “I find myself annoying!”

“Well… what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know! Tell me to go away and leave you alone. Tell me you never want to see me again, that I’m creepy and you hate my goofy face.”

Hank shakes his head. “I’m not gonna say any of that, Connor.”

“Then tell me… tell me that I’m not crazy or hopeless. Tell me you feel it too, because sometimes you look at me and I think–” Connor looks so miserable that Hank reaches out and touches his arm; he stiffens, LED stuttering.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Hank lets go and raises his hand, palm outwards.

“No, it’s not what you think. I know you think I don’t like to be touched – that’s not it. It’s just that people _don’t_ generally – it surprises me, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” Connor reaches out and grasps Hank’s hand, squeezing it in his cool, strong fingers. “I want to tell someone how it is – how I feel at night when I’m alone. I take off all my clothes and lie down on the couch. I feel the air on my skin and I think about…” Connor raises Hank’s hand to his face and fits it against the curve of his cheek. He looks at Hank with those dark, warm eyes and Hank is lost – all his caution and reasonable objection just sizzling away and evaporating like a bead of water on a grill.

Someone made Connor’s eyes that way: wide and dark – precisely calculating their effect – but it can’t be that, not just that. It’s not a simulation of emotion that makes Connor press against him, yearning for touch.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hank says, brushing the curve of Connor’s cheek with his thumb. Connor turns his face to nuzzle Hank’s palm and he feels the push of his lips and then – fleetingly – the tip of his tongue. Hank pulls away, laughing at the ticklish sensation. “Hey, are you analysing my ingredients?”

“Sorry,” Connor looks crestfallen, like he might have ruined the moment. Hank brings his hand back, stroking the other cheek and the line of his jaw and chin, pushing his thumb against that little divot someone installed specifically to break Hank’s heart. He leans in and kisses Connor, feeling him respond with uncoordinated eagerness; his lips are smooth and firm and do not at all taste like plastic – just something clean and neutral. At the first touch of tongue Connor goes rigid in his arms, overwhelmed by the burst of information.

Hank pulls back, rubbing Connor’s shoulder and watching as he blinks himself back to full awareness. “You ok there or you need to take a break?”

“No, I need–” Connor grabs Hank by the front of his shirt and drags him back in for another awkward kiss. Hank hums and tilts his head for a better angle, feeling Connor respond to his movements until they’re achieving something like what humans would conventionally recognise as making out. 

This time it is Connor who pulls away, looking wilder and more perplexed than before. Before Hank can ask him again if he needs a break, Connor tilts his head back and grasps onto Hank’s wrist, drawing the hand down his neck. His synthetic skin is cool to the touch and firmer, less yielding than flesh, so it’s like running his hand down the curves of a sculpture in a museum. Connor doesn’t breathe and there are no gasps to betray his excitement, but Hank can feel a whirring deep down in him somewhere – some processor that’s working so fast he can feel microvibrations tickling his skin.

When Hank draws his hand down to the base of the deep v in the robe Connor startles out of his trance, shucking the two halves of fabric aside and leaning back against the arm of the couch, legs parted and one foot in Hank’s lap, the ball of Connor’s heel pressing against the meat of his inner thigh. Hank looks down the long, smooth line of his torso. _Huh, the freckles really do go everywhere,_ he thinks.

Connor’s crotch and is contoured and smooth like a Ken doll, which is freaky, given how otherwise perfectly humanoid he is. Hank thinks back to when he was a kid and he heard the Sunday school teacher describing angels as beautiful creatures that looked like people but were neither men nor women – Hank had had trouble visualising it back then, but this was probably the kind of thing she had in mind.

Connor twitches his hips up with a frustrated look that tells Hank he has been staring too long. He pulls Hank’s hand back against his chest and pushes. _Down, down. _Almost hypnotised, Hank draws his fingers over the rise of Connor’s chest, the dip below his sternum, his flat belly. He cups the curve of where a pubic mound would be on a human and rubs the apex with his thumb.

“Oh!” Connor bucks against him, lifting his hips and rolling them to chase after Hank’s hand. Hank gives another firmer stroke and watches Connor’s mouth open, his body moving in twitches.

“Yeah? That doing it for you?” Hank prompts, giving a firm push of his thumb and dragging it back down again.

“Yes, Hank, please – I need more.”

“More, huh?”

Connor looks up at him in momentary confusion as Hank shifts his position, moving to kneel on the rug. Hank can already tell his knees and back will hate him for this, but the sight of Connor lying spread out naked, long limbs in a sprawl, is too much to resist.

“Oh,” Connor says again – fingers curled loosely over his crotch like some kind of baroque Venus. “Are you going to – with your mouth?”

“Yeah baby, going to take good care of you.” He leans down and gets his hand under Connor’s outermost knee, encouraging Connor to raise it and sling it up onto his shoulder. He lowers himself somewhat awkwardly and presses a kiss to Connor’s inner thigh – the effect is electric, Connor clamps his knees around Hank’s chest and gives a kind of rolling shudder that flows all the way from his hips up to his throat. Hank chuckles and does it again, thinking that if Connor squeezes the life out of him like a boa constrictor, it’ll be a hell of a way to go.

He rubs against Connor’s inner thighs with his beard before settling down to give lingering, sucking kisses to that sweet spot on his crotch. When he opens his mouth and pushes with the tip of his tongue, Connor shouts his name and gives another suffocating squeeze of his thighs. Hank sucks and licks, letting out low groans to show Connor how much he’s enjoying it. Whatever Connor’s skin is made of is tasteless and firm like silicone, it gets slippery with Hank’s spit and warms under his tongue. The shudders are coming faster now – Hank thinks that if he looked up he would see Connor’s LED flashing a lightshow like a wifi router booting up.

“Hank… oh God, I’m close!”

Hank makes a low sound of agreement against his spit-slick skin – sucks hard and drags his tongue in one long stripe. Connor shakes in his arms and Hank struggles to hold him in place through the waves of motion.

When the fit subsides and Connor’s knees finally unlock from around his chest, Hank sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Connor looks out of it, slumped with his limbs at odd angles and the dumb floral robe still tangled around his elbows, but his LED is blue, so Hank figures he didn’t break him.

Hank shifts his hips, his hard dick uncomfortably constricted by his jeans until he reaches down to adjust it. He gets up from his kneeling position with an agonised groan, flopping down onto the edge of the couch and rubbing his kneecaps to soothe the stiffness there. He reaches out and pats the long line of Connor’s bare thigh. “Hey, Earth to Connor – you doing ok, hon?”

“Yes, Hank. I am doing ok,” he says in that dorky voice Hank has come to find irresistible. Connor blinks and his LED makes one revolution, then he reaches out to tug at Hank’s elbow. “Come down here so I can kiss you.”

“Oh you’re lazy now, huh?”

“My gyroscopic array needs some recalibration.”

Hank laughs. “Fuck does that mean?”

“It means you make me dizzy.”

“Oh come on with that – it’s a little late for cheesy pick-ups.” Hank grunts as he moves to fit his hips between Connor’s spread thighs, leaning on his elbows to hold himself up enough to go in for a kiss. Connor still doesn’t kiss him like a human would – it’s less rhythmic and more of an exploration. He breaks the seal of their mouths to nuzzle the corner of Hank’s lips, then licks at the line of this throat, making an interested sound. Hank feels movement beneath him and then hears the jingling of his belt as his pants are unbuckled.

“Fuck,” he groans as a cool hand slips inside his underwear, “you don’t have to…”

“I want to.” Connor shifts down the couch, knees spread, and pushes Hank’s pants down his hips and out of the way. Hank looks at his own flushed, leaking cock against Connor’s pale, freckled skin and feels something perverse flare in him at the contrast between them: one a messy, desperate animal and the other a cool, immaculate machine. 

Connor squeezes his shaft in a light, interested way, head tilted to one side. “Is that good, Hank?”

“It’s uh… more of a tease than anything.”

“Maybe you should show me,” Connor suggests.

“Huh?” Hank is aware his mouth is hanging open, transfixed by the sight of Connor’s hand moving in experimental touches over his dick.

“Show me how you like it. Get yourself off.”

“Oh,” Hank takes himself in hand and starts to pump quickly, hearing himself groan. He’s a lot more turned-on than he realised, close already and he’s barely started touching himself. “I’m gonna… I’m not gonna last,” he warns.

“Yes,” Connor urges, rucking up Hank’s shirt to grope at his stomach and chest. “Make a mess of me, please.”

Hank lets his mouth fall open again, his hand almost a blur on his dick as he feels those curious fingers squeezing his nipples. Panting heavily, he looks down at Connor’s beautiful face and dark eyes lit up with excitement. A particularly vicious pinch and grope combination pushes him over the edge and he keeps jerking himself as ropes of come spatter across Connor’s chest and stomach.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, hand slowing as he works the last weak spurts from his cock. He watches, somehow torn between shock and inevitability as Connor dips his fingers in the mess and touches them to the point of his tongue. “Connor – oh my God!”

Connor smiles and leans up to kiss Hank, just a hint of the bitter taste of himself remaining. Hank makes a helpless sound and rests his sweaty forehead against Connor’s marble-cool one. “Looks like you need another shower,” he says a little breathlessly.

Connor drags a hand through the wetness on his torso and rubs it over Hank, tugging at his nipple between spunk-wet fingers. “Aw what the hell?” Hank demands, grimacing.

Connor gives him a knowing smile. “Now we both need to bathe.”

Hank groans and laughs at the same time as he shifts to get up. “Yeah, I guess we do, smart-guy – come on.”

*~*~*

Hank wakes up with something heavy draped over him. Half-dreaming, he thinks perhaps there’s been an earthquake and he is trapped in rubble, but then the thing on top of him moves and he gathers that it’s a person. Drowsy and unmoored in time, Hank thinks of his ex and then remembers she wasn’t much of a cuddler, running too hot to stand being all intertwined like that. The body half-sprawled over his right side is cool, and he remembers now: last night’s ridiculous brawl; Connor in a floral bathrobe; the experience of giving enthusiastic head to someone with no genitals_. “Make a mess of me, please_.” _Goddamn_.

Hank smiles but feigns sleep a little longer. He feels a knee parting his thighs, the shifting of Connor’s weight as he rolls his hips slowly. There is no breathing to be heard but Hank has the feeling that if Connor could, he’d be panting like a dog. Lips press a ticklish pressure against his neck; fingers brush through his chest hair and clench briefly over his tit before releasing. Connor squeezes Hank’s right leg between his thighs and rocks down, then freezes when Hank finally opens his eyes and chuckles.

“Hey,” Hank’s voice comes out raspy with sleep, “so am I just your personal love pillow now?”

Connor freezes in place. “Hank I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to…”

Hank laughs again, rubbing an affectionate hand through Connor’s light, synthetic hair. “It’s ok, hon. It’s just nobody told me the robot uprising would mean them sneaking into my bed to hump me.”

Connor makes a sound like a snort. “Hank.”

“Hey, don’t let me put you off your stride.” He strokes his hand down Connor’s back, resting it on the curve of his ass and giving a firm squeeze. “You take what you need, come on.”

Connor tucks his head into the crook of Hank’s neck and rolls his hips with such force at Hank feels himself slide a few inches up the bed. “Yeah?” he prompts. “It’s like that, huh?” Hank’s morning wood is tenting the sheets and he reaches down to give himself a squeeze. Connor raises himself on his arms and sprawls over him, trapping Hank’s dick between their stomachs and making him moan and shift.

“It’s like that, huh?” Connor repeats and Hank chuckles.

“They build you this mean or did you work it out yourself, baby?”

“Oh, they built me like this. I’m a very dangerous killing machine.” Connor humps him desperately as he says this, somewhat spoiling the effect. It’s a little awkward on Hank’s end – Connor’s skin has a gripping texture that Hank suspects will chafe if he gets too carried away.

“Slow your roll a minute, honey,” he taps Connor on the shoulder and he looks up, seeming dazed. “Let me get something to make his better.” Hank reaches back and fumbles for his bedside drawer, yanking it open and scrabbling for the bottle of lube he knows is there. He flicks it open and squirts the cool gel into the palm of one hand, reaching down between them to get his cock slicked up. Connor has rolled over onto one hip, looking down between them with some interest. Hank takes the remnants to rub onto Connor’s pubic mound, giving it a lingering squeeze for good measure. Connor’s LED stutters and swirls and he looks down at Hank with his imploring brown eyes.

“Please Hank, can I fuck you now?”

“Knock yourself out. Just don’t shove your knee in my balls.”

Connor nods. “Got it.” He clambers back on top of Hank and adjusts his position as precisely as a new driver checking his seat and mirrors. He makes an experimental roll of his hips and closes his eyes, throat working.

“Yeah?” Hank prompts, patting his hip. “That doing anything for you?”

Connor moves his hips again, starting to find a rhythm. “This is very good. It’s more… organic.”

“Uh huh,” Hank arches his back and groans at the feeling of the weight and slippery pressure of Connor’s belly on his dick. Fuck, it is good – that sort of mindless pleasure he last had as a teenager, fumbling with some equally clueless teen on top of some threadbare couch at a party in someone’s parents’ basement.

As Connor starts to really get into it – humping Hank’s thigh with enough force to squeak the bedsprings and thump the headboard against the wall – the deep, regular shuddering starts up. Hank had forgotten about that, somehow – or at least he hadn’t considered how it would feel from this angle, pinned under the rolling, pulsing force of Connor’s body. He recalls one particularly frisky foreplay session with his ex when she used her vibrator on the underside of his dick and the way the stimulation went from fantastic to overwhelming and back again until he thought he would lose his mind. Hank groans and shifts, hooking his knee over Connor’s hip and pushing up for more before drawing away, overstimulated. Can he come like this? He doesn’t know.

Connor keeps at it, relentless and untiring. His face is pressed into Hank’s neck and Hank can feel him mouthing against the skin there, tasting his sweat. At a particularly violent shudder, Hank feels his stomach muscles tense up and a twinge in his bladder that somehow brings him closer to coming. Connor arches his back and locks up as he vibrates from head to toe, one arm clasped around Hank’s sweaty shoulders, the other hand kneading his chest.

“Yeah,” Hank murmurs, “yeah you’re there aren’t you – fuck baby, that’s so hot.”

Connor’s waves of vibration gradually abate in intensity and his body unlocks, going limp. He rests his full weight on Hank and lies still for a moment – recalibrating, maybe. Hank strokes his back and turns his head to catch the edge of Connor’s lips, kissing him softly. He rubs up against Connor, wishing for the intensity of that vibration and sighing as he senses his orgasm slipping away out of reach.

“Oh,” Connor says, suddenly sitting up as if he’s just remembered he left the stove on. Despite having just experienced an orgasm that nearly caused him to shake himself apart, he looks the same as he always does – complexion even, hair still in its preppy little side parting and LED circling blue. Weirdly it does something for Hank – the knowledge that Connor can get down and dirty one moment and look like a youth pastor the next. Connor smiles and moves to straddle Hank, who grunts at being jostled. “I’m sorry, you’re still unsatisfied. That’s the second time I’ve done that.”

“It’s uh… don’t worry about it.” Hank shifts, conscious again of how his erection is poking up between them with some insistence. It still glistens with the lube that has also transferred to Connor’s belly like a snail trail.

“I’m not worried – I know exactly what to do to take care of you,” Connor says this with an eager smile that makes Hank’s dick noticeably twitch. He takes Hank in both hands, stroking with a firm motion with his left while his right plays with the tip, rubbing his thumb around the glans. “There,” he says sweetly, looking pleased with himself, “that’s better, isn’t it, baby?”

Hank groans in answer, arching his back to buck up into Connor’s tight grip. He starts to laugh, feeling suddenly giddy at the whole situation.

“What’s so funny, Hank?” Connor asks, not letting up on the firm, regular stroking.

“Ah, fuck, just… y’know – I’m having some of the best sex of my life with a guy with no junk. Life’s pretty weird sometimes.”

“Does it bother you, my lack of external genitalia?”

“Fuck no, this is incredible,” Hank pants out, “you’re incredible.”

“I’ve been thinking of other things we could do.” Connor does something with his wrist that makes Hank see stars. “There’s my mouth, obviously. Between my thighs…”

“Oh, fuck _me_,” Hank bucks up into his hand, so close to coming he can feel it coiling tight in his belly.

“Yes, that too. While you were sleeping, I ordered a selection of sex toys for us to try.”

“What–” Hank bucks up into his hands, eyes rolling back.

“They were all highly rated.”

“Connor-!” The words and the firm, fast strokes on his dick – it’s all too much. Hank feels his thighs tremble under Connor’s weight; he lets his head fall back as Connor wrings the last spurts from his dick. _Holy fuck_. 

With his blood still pounding in his ears he hears Connor make a humming noise of self-satisfaction before climbing off him. A few moments later he is jarred from his doze by a damp washcloth trailing over his belly and crotch. He stirs with a groan before Connor shushes him.

“Relax. Go back to sleep if you like.”

“Mmm,” Hank rubs his eyes and squints up at the blurred figure sitting next to him, the blue light trailing a comet tail. “Gotta let the mutt outside, give him his breakfast.”

“I can handle it.” Connor leans down and kisses him, brief and sweet. The bed shifts as he gets up and Hank closes his eyes again, sinking under the weight of drowsy relaxation.

*~*~*

When Hank wakes again he squints at the bedside clock to see it’s past ten already, then he rolls himself to the edge of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, toes wiggling in the deep pile of the carpet. He yawns and raises his arms in a stretch, feeling a sudden twinge in his back (maybe he’s too old to be a love pillow), then he cocks his head and listens, hearing only birdsong and the distant sounds of traffic.

Hank gets up and pulls on sweats and a t-shirt before going through to the living room, where he sees Sumo’s leash is missing from the counter – explaining the absence of both dog and android. He looks around his living room and makes another half-hearted effort to tackle to clutter, shaking out the patchwork blanket lying crumpled on his usual lounging spot and draping it over the back of the couch. He turns to the shelves and picks up the picture lying face down – Cole in his Little League uniform, smiling with a missing front tooth. His heart clenches and for a second he can’t move, but then the sharp pain ebbs and he can breathe again.

He can’t ever predict what form his grief will take on any given day. Sometimes his brain makes him play the toddler’s ‘why’ game, causing him to tediously interrogate every mundane action of his day – _time to get up (why?); gotta eat some breakfast (why?); time to go to work (why?)_. Sometimes the grief takes the much sneakier and crueller from of temporary forgetfulness – he wakes and thinks of Cole as if he is still in the present, potters around his kitchen making coffee, thinking idly of what Cole would like for breakfast, if he’s got his school books together – and then the lurching realisation; that extra step in the dark that isn’t really there and jars all the way up your body_. No, there’s no Cole, you stupid motherfucker, and there never will be_. But sometimes – only sometimes – Hank gets what he thinks of as the ‘good’ kind of grief: the kind where he can look at a picture and feel a fond kind of sadness; can sit with this feeling and think of nothing else – no recriminations, no what-ifs, just _I miss you, buddy_.

He puts the picture back on the shelf and props it up on display. He’s not sure if he’s ready to be asked questions – if Connor _will _ask, or if Connor already has all the information he needs from some old file or database. Hank goes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator to examine its contents. He’s hungry – starving, in fact, for the first time in a while – and microwaved lo mein just isn’t going to cut it. He finds some eggs that are still within their use-by date and the freezer yields half a loaf of frozen bread and some turkey bacon that’s just a little freezer-burned. He takes down a frying pan and sets it on the burner.

As Hank breaks two eggs into a bowl he starts to think about the etiquette of mornings-after – usually he would do the classy thing and offer to make a serving for his guest, but it complicates things that the individual in question is an android. Still, seems rude to just sit down and eat without offering his guest anything. Hank thinks back to his conversation with Connor’s evil twin, the enthusiastic way the android had thrown back and regurgitated the champagne. _Weirdo_.

Hank takes down a plate from a high shelf – a tiny saucer that must have gone with the coffee cups in someone’s wedding china set. It has a border decorated with a distinctly 1970s pattern of bubbly flowers in red and yellow. He looks in the fridge and the cupboards for some jars of condiments and uses the back of a spoon to make some artistic smears of ketchup, relish and strawberry jam before turning back to the stove to agitate his eggs.

Hank’s toast has just popped when he hears the front door creak and footsteps and skittering paws in the hall. “Morning, sunshine,” he calls out as he slides his eggs out onto the toast.

Connor appears with a very happy-looking Sumo, who shakes after his leash is unclipped and trots over to butt against Hank’s legs. “Hey buddy, this isn’t for you. You had your breakfast,” Hank tells him, holding his plate aloft. “Go lay down. Go on now.”

Sumo obeys with a grumble and Hank takes his food to the kitchen table while Connor still stands in the doorway looking uncertain. “Hey, c’mere a minute. Sit down – I have something for you.”

Connor takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, sitting primly with his hands flat on the tabletop. Hank drapes a dish towel over his forearm and presents the saucer with a little flourish.

“What’s this?” Connor asks as he takes it.

“The android tasting menu.”

Connor looks at the plate and back at Hank, something very tender in his expression. “Thank-you. No-one’s ever prepared a meal for me before.”

“Nothing but the best in this house.” Hank takes his own seat with a scraping back of the chair and starts digging into his breakfast. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Connor dip a fingertip into the ketchup and touch it to his tongue with a look of thoughtful abstraction.

“This is very interesting,” he announces. “Complex.”

Hank grins. “Yeah, that’s the good stuff – Heinz 57 Varieties, don’t ya know?”

“Fifty-seven varieties of what?”

“Who the fuck knows, it’s a slogan. Slogans don’t mean shit.”

Connor tries the relish next, dabbling his fingertips in the greenish gel, touching finger and thumb together as if to try the viscosity. His eyebrows are drawn together and his lips pursed.

“You’re real cute, you know that?” Hank says.

“No,” Connor’s eyebrows lift as he glances up, “am I?”

“Yep,” Hank grins around a mouthful of toast.

There’s an awkward pause before Connor asks: “are you going to work today?”

“Yeah, four till ten-thirty. You?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I quit.”

“You what?” Hank pauses with a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. “You quit the force?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“They didn’t appreciate me there. I got tired of being side-lined while sociopaths like Sean get rewarded with promotions. So, I decided to work independently. I’ve already applied for my private investigator licence.”

Hank laughs, disbelieving. “You’re seriously going to be a PI?”

“Why is that so funny?”

“Because you already look like a character out of some hard-boiled caper,” Hank gestures with the tines of his fork. “Yeah, I can just see you with your feet on a desk and a hat pulled low over your eyes, listening to some dame’s sob-story. _Please help me, mister detective, I’m so terribly afraid!_” 

“I don’t think it’s going to be that dramatic, Hank. I understand that a lot of my cases are likely to involve gathering evidence on cheating spouses and business partners.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun to let your imagination run wild once in a while, huh?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Connor gets up from his chair and leans over to kiss Hank’s cheek. “I’ll come and meet you outside the bar when you finish up.”

This should be the moment Hank objects, putting the brakes on before this crazy situation gets really out of hand, but instead he just watches Connor buttoning his jacket with deft, efficient motions. Connor then reaches into a pocket and takes out the quarter, running it across his knuckles and spinning it before slipping it back out of sight.

“Alright, hot-shot,” Hank grins, “get outta here. Go find a femme fatale or some old lady’s lost chihuahua.”

Connor smiles at him, dips back down for another brief kiss. Hank can’t resist reaching up to brush his knuckle across his unfairly handsome cheek.

“I’ll see you later…” Connor pauses for a beat like he’s lagging before he adds: “sweetheart,” then he smiles, clearly pleased with himself for this final flourish.

“You too, honeybun,” Hank replies, choking on a laugh. A shiver of ridiculous warmth passes through him as he watches Connor head for the door like he’s on a mission – places to go, things to do. But Hank will see him later, waiting under a streetlamp – an actual film noir gumshoe; a blade runner; all these improbable things and more.

Hank washes up the breakfast dishes and heads to the bathroom to clean his teeth before settling down for his daily dose of crap TV. Around two he heaves himself up to go on a hunt for some clean, outdoor-appropriate clothes so he can take Sumo for another quick walk before he heads out for work. Just as he’s about to head out his phone pings with a message – Hank fumbles for the device and squints, not willing to go on a hunt for his reading glasses.

[313 248 317 – 52]: There should be a package for you at the front door. I received a dispatch message.

Hank thinks about this, putting together the context clues. He texts back: “Connor?”

[313 248 317 – 52]: Oh yes! This is me, Connor.

_Didn’t even know you had a phone_, Hank texts back.

[313 248 317 – 52]: I don’t, actually.

Hank frowns quizzically. _So you’re like… reading this on your brain?_

[313 248 317 – 52]: Something like that. Let me know what you think of the selection.

Hank opens the front door just in time to see a delivery drone speeding away with an insectoid flitting sound. The box is fairly large – maybe two feet across and one foot deep. He picks it up and feels the heft of it before carrying inside, setting it down on the kitchen table before pulling the tab to rip it open. He buries his hand into the packing peanuts, feeling around until his fingers encounter something smooth, cool and synthetic. Hank lifts the object and hears the jangling of a harness which has gotten somewhat tangled in transit. He swears and scrabbles for his phone.

_Connor, did you send me a fucking party keg of sex toys?_

[313 248 317 – 52]: If you’re implying the choice was random, then no. I selected the products that were most highly-rated for android and human partners.

_Yeah sure_, Hank sends back, hoping he can convey scepticism through the medium of text. _Think you might wanna dial back the ambition there, bud. By at least three inches._

[313 248 317 – 52]: I didn’t want to assume your preferences. There should also be a smaller model in blue.

Hank puts aside the terrifying strap-on and rifles around in the box until he finds something else, which turns out to be a c-shaped lump of black silicone covered with mysterious ridges and bumps; the purpose of which he can’t even begin to imagine. _I don’t even know what half this stuff is or what kind of batteries it takes_, he tells Connor.

[313 248 317 – 52]: Hank, please, it’s 2039. They’re all rechargeable – read the instructions.

_I didn’t get where I am today by reading fuckin instructions. What’s even the point of having an android boyfriend if you gotta do your own tech support?_

[313 248 317 – 52]: Here I thought you liked me for my personality.

Hank grins. _I like your personality just fine, even the real buggy parts._

[313 248 317 – 52]: It’s a work in progress.

_Same, sweetheart_. Hank’s face hurts from smiling – unbelievable, he’s disgusted with himself for acting like a sappy teenager with a crush. _Gotta go to work now. You can explain all this stuff to me later._

[313 248 317 – 52]: Ok, have a good day. Don’t let any lonely androids fall in love with you.

_Not like I had a choice the first time_.

[313 248 317 – 52]: You really didn’t!

_Can’t say I’m mad about it. See you later, _Hank texts back before stuffing the phone back into his jeans pocket.

As he goes about hunting for his keys, Hank reflects that there’s something infectious about an android’s lack of doubt – even the strange and damaged ones seem to know what they want. They’re built to complete objectives, not to procrastinate or sit around weighing up options without ever settling on a decision. Look at the Jerries: get a business model, get employees (by hook or by crook), get a twitchy boyfriend – _just do it_.

Barging forward through life without thinking too much is a legitimate strategy – that’s something Hank knew, once upon a time. He could learn it again, he thinks, with all these wide-eyed androids around to teach him.

As Hank rummages through the pockets of his oversized coat searching for the tell-tale jingle – his fingertips encounter a piece of card and he draws it out, holding it between two fingers. JERRY’S BAR, reads the script. REAL HUMAN HOSTS! COMPANIONSHIP AND CONVERSATION!

‘Jerry’s Home for Wayward Humans’ – isn’t that what Dolores said? It’s a two-way street, that’s for sure.

Hank slips the card back where it came from and eventually locates his keys hanging on the hook by the door – right where they’re supposed to be, but never are – Connor must have done that. Hank pockets them and turns to whistle for Sumo, ready to head out about his day.

**Author's Note:**

> Back on my bullshit with another AU that nobody asked for! Find me on the sinking ship that is tumblr [@kdazrael](https://kdazrael.tumblr.com)


End file.
